


Twilight Galaxy

by slash4femme



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Drama & Romance, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Oral Sex, Tentacle Sex, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8097187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slash4femme/pseuds/slash4femme
Summary: That time France woke up with tentacles instead of legs and everything that happened after ...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Hetalia kink meme in 2010. 
> 
> Prompt: We've read stories where Francis summons a tentacle monster and unleashed it on an unsuspecting paramour. What about a fic where FRANCIS gets turned into a tentacle monster? ...and enjoys himself enormously... Um. UK/FR as - well, one pairing please?

“This is your fault! Fix it! Fix it now!” Francis is practically wailing and Arthur blinks and then frowns moving the phone a little away from his ear. He glances at the clock, which reads 6:00 am in large, eye-searing, glowing red numbers. Arthur makes a noise half way between a moan and growl into the phone shielding his eyes with one hand.   
  
“Fix what?”  
  
“You know what!” Francis hisses at him sounding almost hysterical and ready to kill someone. “Get over here right now and fix it!”  
  
The line clicks off leaving Arthur frowning groggily at the ceiling of his bedroom. Something’s not right here and not just because Francis said so. Because of the two of them Francis has always been the more outwardly emotional one but he doesn’t get hysterical very often. Arthur sighs and rolls over grasping a pillow and snuggles it to his chest and tries to forget about it. Several minutes tick by and Arthur rolls to his other side, and then onto his back and finally sighs again and admits defeat. He hauls himself out of bed and goes to take a shower, make himself a cup of tea, text his boss, and then get himself a ticket to Paris.   
  
Francis’ Paris apartment is locked and no one responds when Arthur bangs on the door. Luckily Arthur has a spare key. It’s odd though because from how angry Francis had sounded on the phone Arthur had half expected to be met at the door by an irate Frenchman ready to strangle the living daylight out of him.   
  
The first thing he notices when he steps into the apartment is the utter chaos. All of the books have been ripped from their shelves and thrown around the living room, most of the furniture has been knocked over, and there are broken things strewn around. It looks like someone had a knock down drag out fight. Arthur carefully steps over what used to be a vase, hand made by an artist friend of Francis in the 1890s that Arthur knows for a fact used to be one of Francis’ favorites.   
  
That’s when Arthur starts to really worry. 

“Francis?” Arthur calls picking his way through the living room “Francis!”  
  
There is a noise from the bedroom and Arthur heads in that direction.  
  
“Don’t come in!” Francis yells at him as Arthur pushes open the door but it’s much too late. Arthur stands in the doorway of Francis’ bedroom and gapes. Francis is on the floor in a heap by the bed and his hair is plastered to his face, his eyes are red-rimmed and his chest is bare. That’s alright Arthur has seen him naked thousands of times, so it’s certainly not Francis’ state of undress that’s causing his brain to stop functioning The beautiful pale skin of Francis’ waist, tapers off to become a mass of grey-blue tentacles.   
  
The whole bottom half of Francis body is now a writhing mass of tentacles.   
  
Francis has tentacles from the waist down.   
  
Francis has  _TENTACLES_!   
  
Arthur makes a series of choking noises, he’s only partially aware of seeing as how his brain seems to have taken a vacation of from reality in general.   
  
“This is your fault!” Francis rears up off the floor supported by a dozen or so, thick blue-ish appendages and Arthur distantly notes that Francis towers over him now. Francis makes an enraged, almost inhuman hissing sound and then suddenly doubles over arms wrapped around himself gagging and coughing. Everything seems to freeze for a second and then Francis is moving, propelling himself off the floor and even the walls with incredible strength and speed. The next thing Arthur knows the door to the bathroom slams with almost enough force to tear it off its hinges and he’s left alone, staring at the floor where Francis had been.   
  
_Francis has tentacles._    
  
Arthur’s brain slowly, _very_ slowly begins to work again. Francis does indeed have tentacles, but that isn’t Arthur’s immediate concern. Judging by Francis’ mad dash from the room there is something else wrong so Arthur head towards the bathroom.   
  
“Francis,” Arthur bangs on the door and then lets himself in anyway. The shower is running and Arthur can here harsh panting coming from the other side of the plastic curtain.  
  
“I have a hard time breathing if I’m not moist.” Francis tells him from the other side of the curtain his voice strangely devoid of emotion, even though his breath is still coming in painful rattles. “I almost suffocated to death this morning when I stopped being able to breathe and panicked.”   
  
“Are you all right now?” Arthur begins to pull himself together. Yes, he’s in shock, yes it will take him a while to fully process this but Francis needs him, he needs him to figure this out.   
  
“I will be better when you take whatever spell you put on my off.” Francis tells him tersely and Arthur shakes his head.  
  
“I had nothing to do with this.”   
  
“Of course you did.” Francis doesn’t sound quite as confident as Arthur things he had been aiming for.  
  
“I swear I didn’t do it. In fact, I didn’t know anything about it until I came over here.”   
  
Francis makes a disbelieving noise. 

Arthur’s eyes narrow, “I swear by my honor as the Queen’s  _most_  loyal subject.”   
  
There is a long pregnant pause.

“Well if you did not do this to me,” Francis finally says sounding more lost and sad than angry now. “Who did?”   
  
“I don’t know.” Arthur shifts a little awkwardly, “but I’ll find out Francis,”   
  
Francis doesn’t reply but there’s a splashing noises from behind the shower curtain and what sounds like several bottles of very expensive body wash falling into the tub.   
  
“Francis? I’m going to go make some calls.” Arthur moves towards the door and ducks in time to avoid a bottle of shampoo flung at him from the shower.   
  
The first thing he does, is go back to Francis’ bedroom and go through his closet. Francis’ closet is large and spacious and Arthur paws through all of the clothes and shoes until he gets to the very back. There is a plain cardboard box on a shelf and in it is Francis’ army issue pistol from the Second World War. Arthur takes it out and makes sure it’ll still work before loading it with a practiced hand and tucking it into his coat. He walks back into the bedroom and sits on the bed while he dials his cellphone.   
  
The phone rings only twice.

“Hello, England.” Kiku’s English, is as always clipped but perfect.   
  
“Kiku.” he takes a breath. “I’m over with Francis right now and we have something of a problem.”   
  
“Yes?” Kiku sounds only vaguely interested, “How may I help?”   
  
Arthur swallows dryly and weighs how much Francis will hurt him if he tells Kiku, against how helpful Kiku might end up being in this situation. “Well you see, it’s seems that . . .” he takes another breath, “he, that is Francis, . . . has tentacles.”   
  
There is dead silence on the other side of the phone and Arthur cringes.   
  
“I see.” Kiku says after a long moment, “and this is a new development?”   
  
“As of this morning.” Arthur confirms, “Francis is understandably … not taking it well.”   
  
“In that case,” Kiku pauses as if considering his option, “I am going to get on a plane and fly to Paris, please take care of France until I get there. Oh and England? If you get a chance take a picture and email it to my cellphone. Thank you, Goodbye.”  
  
The line goes dead against his ear and Arthur sighs. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Yesterday I was fine. I was minding my own business, doing my job, making myself a lovely dinner . . . Now look at me!” 

Arthur sits in the couch while Francis paces the length of the living room. The room isn’t quite the disaster area it had been when Arthur had gotten there that morning. Although, Arthur thinks, it might never look the same again. After getting off the phone with Kiku Arthur had spent the rest of the time waiting for Francis to emerge from the bathroom tidying up the place. 

“I am hideous,” Francis gestures to himself, one long elegant hand taking in his messed up hair, bare chest, and writhing tentacles. Francis’ hands are shaking badly and his voice is pitched high enough that almost everything he says seems to be one step away from a horrified shriek. Most distressingly he seems to be on the verge of bursting into tears. Arthur shifts uncomfortably on the couch. He doesn’t quite know what to do, Francis is often flamboyant and overstated, but rarely distraught. In fact, Arthur hasn’t seen Francis like this since World War II. Arthur pushes those memories away hard and tries to focus on the here and now.

“Francis.” He stands up and moves across the room to grab hold of the other nations shoulders. Francis actually stops pacing look at him and Arthur does his best to ignore the tentacles brushing against his legs. “It’ll be all right.” He says because that’s the only thing he can think of. He presses his hands against Francis’ shoulders, making small soothing circles against the pale skin under his hand with his thumbs “Come on dear, breathe.” 

As if startled into compliance Francis does, taking deep breaths in and out. Arthur hums a little, angling his body towards him. He rubs Francis’ shoulders and back, pets his hair, keeps his mind off the fact that there are tentacles with little suckers curling and twining around his legs. Francis’ hands come up to cover his face but his breathing is no longer verging on hysterical and his whole body sways towards Arthur. His tentacles twisting up Arthur’s legs, suckers clinging to his trousers, while even more reach out to loosely grip at Arthur’s upper arms, circle the other nation’s waist. 

“Francis.” Arthur tries to keep the unease out of his voice but he doesn’t quiet manage to hide the slight quaver there. Francis jerks back, away from Arthur, tentacles rasping against the cloth of Arthur’s trousers and jumper.

“I’m sorry.” Francis sounds close to tears again and Arthur reaches out for the other nation.

“Hush.” Arthur rubs his hands up and down Francis’ arms. “There now, it’s all right. It’s going to all right, dearest”  
“I’m sorry.” Francis says again, leaning forward into Arthur grasp, leaning his head against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur pets his back and thinks about when they were both children, and he’d have nightmares and crawl, crying into bed with Francis and how gentle Francis had been with him. He thinks about Francis crying in his sleep in the trenches during the Great War, seeming small and vulnerable. He clenches his teeth and doesn’t flinch or make a sound as Francis’ tentacles reach out for him again, twining around his body. He holds the other nation, until Francis stops shaking as badly.

“Come on now.” Arthur gently turns Francis towards the bedroom. “You need to put something on, Kiku will be here soon, and you don’t want to be naked.” He stops and considers that for a moment, “Well, I don’t want you to be naked, in any case.” 

“Kiku’s coming?” frighteningly strong tentacles suddenly shove Arthur away. “You told him!?”

Francis rears up again, and it’s strange how when he is calm he’s about the same height as Arthur but when he gets mad the tentacles allow him to tower over other nation. 

“We need his help.” Arthur rubs his elbow where he’d narrowly missed falling on top of a small side table. “Think about it Francis, beside from me and Kiku who else would you call?” 

Francis’ hands, which had been clenched into fists slowly unclear. “You're right.” He finally says after a long moment. “I just don’t want anyone to see me like this.” He covers his face again with one hand and Arthur gently takes him by the elbow and guides him towards the bedroom. 

“That’s why we’re going to find something for you to wear.” 

It turns out easier said than done. Because faced with Francis’ closet Arthur has no idea what the other man should wear. It seems a little silly for Francis to wear one of his silk dress shirts or the top part of a suit when he can’t wear the bottom half. A t-shirt also seems kind of strange given the new dimensions to his bottom half. Arthur rubs his forehead, his own hysteria threatening to leak through, not for the first time that day. He finally settles on an almost kimono style silk robe in deep blue with silver threaded embroidery around the cuffs. He turns back to Francis to find the other nation, has brushed his hair out and pulled it back away from his face with a ribbon while studiously ignoring the mirror. A pain starts in Arthur’s chest, sharp under his ribs. Francis is usually so confident in himself and his own sensuality and seeing him like this hurts.  
“Here.” He holds the robe out and Francis wordlessly takes it and slips it on, fastening the sash around his waist. Arthur tries hard not to become distracted by the way Francis’ hair looks falling across the dark blue silk. He wants to kiss Francis, Arthur realizes, he wants to kiss him badly, they are alone and Francis is for all intent and purposes mostly undressed and they are standing to together in the other nations’ bedroom. Then Francis reaches up and with one hand that still shakes ever so slightly pushes back a strand of blond hair and something inside Arthur twists.

He takes a step back and calms himself, “I’ll . . . go wait in the living room, shall I?” He suggests before practically bolting from the room. 

Francis takes a few minutes to come out and Arthur sifts around on the couch. When he does sweep in and curl up on the couch, Arthur notices that Francis is also wearing an old, decorative hair comb in his hair as well. Francis looks irresistibly beautiful, and incredibly fragile and Arthur tries hard to think of something else. If it were any other day, Arthur could do a hundred different things in this moment; there are dozens of different ways he can think of to allow Francis to know about his interest and desire. Hell if it had been any other day Francis would have already taken control of the situation and Arthur would already be on his knees in front of him . . . 

“I’ll makes us some tea then.” Arthur gets up quickly and heads for the kitchen. It’s after he’s put the kettle on that he leans back and sighs. He doesn’t know what to do here.


	3. Chapter 3

Kiku looks as calm and composed as ever when he steps into Francis’ apartment and follows Arthur into the living room.  
  
“Hello England, France.” He bows a little to both of them, before turning his full attention towards Francis, expression gentling.

“How are you feeling, France?” He takes several steps forward until he’s stand next to the couch hands folded in front of him. Francis makes an obvious effort to pull himself together.  
  
“Why so formal Kiku?” Francis manages a smile and beckons the other nation forward a little, “I have told you before to call me Francis.” He pats the seat on the couch next to him and after a moment of hesitation Kiku sits.   
  
“England has told me a little about your condition.” He says regarding the other nation seriously and Francis’ smile falters, then falls away, and he looks down at his hands. Kiku gaze drops to where Francis has his silk robe pooled out around him hiding his tentacles from view. “May I see Fr-Francis?”   
  
Francis bites his lower lip but after a second he rises from the couch, the silk dropping away and mass of grey-green tentacles comes into few. Kiku sucks in a sharp breath, eyes scanning down Francis’ body and Francis’ chin goes up almost as if defiance.  
  
Kiku says something in Japanese, too low for Arthur to hear it but Francis’ eyes flash and his cheeks color ever so slightly and Arthur thinks it’s been a long time since he’s seen Francis blush and bites back hard on the sudden urge to kick Kiku out of the apartment. He sets his jaw and stays where he is though.  
  
“And you have no idea how this happened?” Kiku asks after a long moment and Francis slumps a little and shakes his head.  
  
“Non, I was hoping you could tell me.”   
  
“Believe it or not I have never actually seen this.” Kiku smiles slightly, “well,” he considers for a moment, “I have not seen this exactly and never to a nation.” He stands and slowly circles Francis. “This is not one of England's spells?”   
  
“No.” Arthur grits out and Francis shakes his head.  
  
“Non.”   
  
Kiku presses the tips of his fingers together, “It could be temporary.”  
  
Francis face goes completely blank, “but it could not be?” his voice is also completely devoid of emotion Arthur’s palms begin to sweat and he holds himself very still to keep from shaking.   
  
Kiku tilts his head a little to the side. “Perhaps. I have known it to work both ways, at least with humans.”   
  
Francis takes in a long ragged breath and Arthur moves forward towards the other nation. Kiku beats him to it though and takes Francis’ arm lightly and sitting him back on the couch. The smaller nation doesn’t even blink an eyelash when several of Francis’ tentacles curl around his legs.   
  
“My job.” Francis’ voice trembles.

“The work of a nation can be done from home.” Kiku assures him; lightly touching, Francis’ elbow and touch gliding down to his hand in a way that makes Arthur stiffen a little. “And you will find ways to disguise yourself when you must go out.”   
  
“All my clothes won’t fit me.” Francis looks a little shell-shocked.   
  
“You look beautiful.” Kiku cuts in smoothly, “robes suit you and I will be more than happy to give you as many kimonos as you want.”   
  
Francis sniffles a little Arthur takes the opportunity to come and stand beside him and take the other nation’s hand in his own. “It’ll be all right.” He says soothingly but Francis only glares at him.  
  
“How will it be all right when I am like this?” Francis gestures down to his body and his tentacles rise up to curl and twist in midair, “tell me how Arthur? My beautiful backside is gone and I don’t even know if you will be able to pleasure you satisfactorily-”  
  
Arthur colors at that, “hold up-” He starts.  
  
“Well . . .” Kiku’s cuts in and Francis turns to glare at the smaller nation.   
  
“Not. Helpful. Kiku.” His tone is downright dangerous and Kiku wisely stays quiet.   
  
“Francis.” Arthur squeezes the other nations hands.  
  
“Both of you-” Francis snaps and then doubles over coughing. He pushes himself up off of the couch and makes for the bathroom.   
  
Kiku glances at Arthur questioningly, “he has a hard time breathing if he dries out.” Arthur rubs his forehead and Kiku nods.  
  
“Do you think France-san would permit me to go through the kitchen?” Kiku asks tilting his head to the side, “There may be some clues there to what has happened to him.”   
  
Arthur rubs his forehead then nods “Do what you need to.”   
  
He shows the smaller nation the kitchen the watches as Kiku begins meticulously going through everything in there, starting at one end and working his way around. By the time Kiku is half way through Francis’ state of the art kitchen, the nation still hasn’t come back from the shower so Arthur goes to check on him.   
  
“Francis?” he calls, knocking lightly on the door “Are you all right?”  
  
“Of course I’m not all right. Stop saying that for God's sake.” Francis snaps from other side of the door and Arthur winces a little.  
  
“I there anything I can do?” he asks rather at a loss.   
  
There is a long pause. “I’d like you to call Antonio.” Francis says finally. Arthur sighs and grits his teeth and does it anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hola Arthur!”   
  
Arthur had known this was a bad idea but he’d done it because Francis had asked.   
  
Antonio pushes into Francis’ apartment with Gilbert in tow and Arthur scowls at both of them. Francis is the kitchen finishing off his third glass of wine.   
  
“Francis!” Antonio rounds the corner of the kitchen door and then both him and Gilbert come to a completely stop.  
  
“Ay Dios mio!” Antonio blurts out finally.  
  
“Well Shiiit!” Gilbert says in the same breath.   
  
They both stare as Francis turns away and reaches a little clumsily for his wineglass. Antonio recovers first dashing towards Francis and enveloping him in a hug. Francis melts against him, clings to him and Antonio pets his hair.   
  
“How long has he been like this?” Gilbert turns to Arthur who shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers.   
  
“Since this morning.”   
  
“Damn.”   
  
Francis makes a half-sob, choking noise and Antonio hushes him murmuring low in Spanish. Francis starts coughing, and Antonio supports him with his arm around Francis’ shoulders into the bathroom.   
  
Arthur grabs the bottle of wine, Francis’ glass and then two extra ones and moves into the living room before slouching on the couch. Gilbert pours himself a glass of wine, and then slouches down on the couch as well. “You’ve been here the whole time?”   
  
“Pretty much.” Arthur rubs his forehead. “I just don’t know what to do.”   
  
Antonio and Francis come out of the bathroom and Antonio waves at Arthur and Gilbert. “Move, please.”   
  
They both stand up and Francis lies down on the couch and opens his robe letting it fall around him and Arthur goes a little hot and shifts slightly. Antonio takes a wet towel and lays it across Francis’ chest.  
  
“We are thinking this might help him breathe.” He explains cheerfully to the other two, before turning back to Francis. “You look so sad,” Antonio pets Francis’ hair away from his face and then claps his hands together, “I know, I will make churros!”   
  
Then he’s bustling into the kitchen before anyone can say anything, and Gilbert rolls his eyes. “Too many centuries living with Romano.” He states dryly taking another sip of his wine before passing it to Francis. "He thinks everything can be fixed with food."

“Arthur.” Francis takes the wine glass in one hand and looks up at him, “come over here please.”   
  
Arthur goes to him and takes Francis’ free hand in his own and curls up on the other side of the couch and tries to ignore the way Francis’ tentacles brush against his legs and curls around his ankles. Gilbert watches them for a moment for muttering something and heading for the kitchen. Francis’ grip on Arthur’s hand is strong, as he leans back and takes a sip of wine before closing his eyes. Arthur can’t help but squirm a little as one of Francis’ tentacles creeps up his leg and twists around his waist.   
  
Arthur’s grip gets a little tighter on Francis’ hand, “Francis . . .”   
  
Francis opens his eyes and looks at him and Arthur sets his jaw, “your um . . .your tentacle.”   
  
Francis eyes widen, “I’m sorry.” The tentacle unwraps itself from Arthur and slithers backwards. Francis rubs his forehead; “It is so hard to control them, especially when I’m not thinking about it.”   
  
Arthur pats his hand a little awkwardly and then stands as someone knocks on the door. Frowning he goes to answer it and stares at the little group standing outside in the hall.   
  
“England!”   
  
Arthur blinks stupidly at a beaming Feliciano in the doorway, holding a covered dish; behind him are Ludwig looking awkward and Lovino looking pissed off. “Antonio told Lovi that big brother France was sick.” Feliciano tells him, “So I thought we would bring food to cheer him up.”   
  
Before Arthur can move Northern Italy squeezes by him into the apartment.   
  
“France!” Feliciano exclaims and then there is a long silence. Arthur is a little afraid to turn around, but he does anyway.   
  
“Wow!” Feliciano is slowly inching towards Francis a look of intense curiosity on his face. Francis looks a little unsure; he grips his robe as if he wants to pull it around himself. His tentacles, although still visible, are curling in to his body. “Big brother looks like an octopus.” Feliciano sounds a little in awe but neither shocked nor scared.   
  
“Francis.” Ludwig has also entered the apartment and the bigger nation has paled considerably upon seeing Francis condition. “Are you all right?” He moves towards Francis as if wanting to go to him and then stops unsure hands clenched at his sides.   
  
“Oh mio Dio!” Lovino had managed to catch sight of Francis too. “Antonio!” Lovino bellows, and as if on cue Antonio pops out of the kitchen.   
  
“Romano!” Antonio practically flings himself on him. Lovino stops Antonio's full-bodied assault by putting the food he’s been carrier on the ground and grabbing Antonio with both hands.   
  
“What the fuck is going on here!” Lovino demands.   
  
“Francis seems to have grown tentacles overnight Lovi.” Antonio informs him as if it’s the most commonplace thing in the world. “Now bring that into the kitchen will you. I am making churros.” Antonio takes the lid off of the dish peering in it before his face brightens if that’s even possible. “Ah pasta! Lovely!” he picks the dish up and carries it into the kitchen trailed by Lovino who keeps throwing Francis wary looks over his shoulder.   
  
“They are so cool.” Feliciano is now by the couch looking down entranced by Francis. “My I touch one?” he extends his hand palm up, “please?” 

“Feliciano.” Ludwig starts seriously glancing between Francis and Feliciano. “I am not sure you are supposed to touch someone’s . . . tentacles in public.”   
  
Arthur snorts and has to cover his chuckle with a cough, and Francis grins for the first time that day.   
  
“But of course, little Feliciano can touch.” He purrs, his smile becoming a little teasing and sharp as Feliciano holds out his hand eagerly. One of Francis tentacles twists up then the tip gently settles against Feliciano’s hand. The smaller nation almost coos and fingers closing lightly around the tentacles length. Arthur suddenly becomes transfixed by the way Feliciano touches Francis, the way his hand curls around the tentacles and then uncurls. His free hand comes up to pet along the blue top part, his fingers explore the greyer underbelly. Arthur watches the delicate little suckers on the length pull and cling to Feliciano’s skin and looks up to see the odd expression on Francis’ face.   
  
“Ve, does it feel good?” Feliciano asks probably having seen the look on Francis’ face too, and it comes out so sweet and innocent, it makes Arthur feel down right dirty.   
  
Francis makes a little noise and tilts his head to the side, “It does not feel bad.”   
  
Arthur glances at Ludwig who is looking from Francis to Feliciano with a mildly disturbed expression on his face and something else Arthur can’t quiet place. After a moment the bigger nation turns and head for the kitchen. Feliciano sits on the couch next to Francis and starts chattering about something or other he finds strange, or fascinating, or confusing and Arthur goes in search of something alcoholic to drink.   
  
Ludwig and Gilbert are drinking beer shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen and Antonio and Lovino is arguing at the stove. Arthur has been up since 6:00 am and he’s been stressed and upset for most of the day, he can feel a headache pricking at the back of eyes and he ignores it and swipes a bottle of wine and shuts himself into the bathroom.   
  
He sits on the lid of the toilet and drinks straight from the bottle, wishing it were whisky or possibly scotch. He takes another swig and it’s a bad idea he knows it is, already it’s started to go to his head. Someone pushes the door quietly open and Francis slips inside shutting the door behind him.   
  
“Arthur.” Francis says softly and Arthur looks up at him.  
  
“Hey.”   
  
They stare at each other for a minute and then Francis’ gaze drops to his hands. “This has been hard for you.”   


Arthur snorts softly and takes another swallow of wine. “Harder for you.”   
  
Francis bites his lip and looks away and Arthur feels that pain under his ribs again. He hates when Francis is hurting,  _needs_  the strong, arrogant, unstoppable Francis. He sets the wine bottle on the back of the toilet and makes a decision. Standing slowly, he moves the few steps to Francis and cups Francis’ face in his hands and does what he’s wanted to do all day. 

They’re lips slide together gently, touching and tasting, as if they haven’t done this thousands of times before. Francis’ hands slowly side around Arthur’s shoulders and Arthur pulls them close, tilts his head, deepens the kiss. Teeth grate against teeth for second and then they fit together and tongues touch and tangle, and Arthur pushes into Francis’ mouth and finally Francis pushes back.   
  
His hands become strong and demanding against Arthur’s hips pulling him forward, and his mouth presses against Arthur’s, his tongue shoving back and invading Arthur’s mouth, mapping and claiming as he went. Arthur is vaguely aware of his back hitting the sink but his attention is being distracted by the way Francis sucks Arthur’s lower lip into his mouth, toys at it with his tongue and nibbles gently. Francis’ tentacles twist up Arthur’s legs and one slides around his waist, while other pet at his chest, Arthur gasps against Francis’ mouth, tries to press into the feeling of teeth against the vulnerable skin of his lip while his lower body can’t help but jerk away from the strange slithering feeling of the tentacles. Arthur’s mind hazily flashes to the way Feliciano had touched Francis’ tentacles and he tries to feels what the other nation must have felt.  _This is Francis_ , he thinks,  _this is Francis, and, you trust him_. Francis fingers cart through his hair and the tentacles around Arthur’s legs and waist tightens. Finally, Arthur has to pull back, panting.   
  
“I’m sorry.” He looks down, not at Francis, “It’s just . . . It’s too fast.”   
  
“It’s all right.” Francis touches his hair again and there is something so sad about the smile Francis gives him that Arthur can feel his heart ache.  
  
He opens his mouth to say something when someone knocks on the door and then pushes it open.   
  
“Hey.” Gilbert eyes the two of them standing pressed against each other up against the sink, “Antonio said to tell you dinner’s ready. But if you’re too busy molesting eyebrows-”  
  
Arthur growls at him as Gilbert ducks back around the door and Francis pulls away from Arthur and makes to leave. Arthur reaches out for him but isn’t quiet fast enough. Then He and the wine are left alone in the bathroom again. 


	5. Chapter 5

They all eat sitting around Francis’ living room. Francis and Feliciano sit on the couch. Kiku has emerged from Francis’ bedroom, where he had set up as a temporary lab to test several items from Francis’ kitchen. Now the tiny island nation kneels elegantly next to the coffee table. Arthur is sitting in one of the armchairs with his plate balanced awkwardly on his knees. Ludwig is sitting on the other armchair. While Gilbert is sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Antonio who is also sitting on the floor cuddled up with Lovino who looks less then pleased about it but makes no move to get away. The food is a mix of traditional Italian and Spanish dishes with multiple kinds of wine and beer to drink. 

Around the time the dinner dishes are cleared into the kitchen Arthur asks them all, politely, to leave which of course no one does.   
Instead dessert is brought out and more alcohol is poured. Antonio and Francis end up on the couch with Francis’ head in Antonio’s lap, and Lovino is sitting on the floor his head by one of Spain’s knees. The South Italian brother morosely studies a glass of good Italian wine while Feliciano sits on one of the kitchen counters and talks animatedly with Gilbert. 

Arthur cuts himself off from drinking around about then. He figures no one really needs him getting drunk and bursting into tears, or throwing up, or any of the other equally unpleasant things he does when drunk. He really doesn’t like looking at Antonio and Francis like that though, and he really doesn’t like the speculative glances Kiku keeps throwing his way over the top of the smaller nations own wineglass. If he just had a little bit more wine in his system, the whole thing might be more bearable. He might be able to better control the desire to reach out and touch the tiny delicate hand Kiku rests on the arm of Arthur’s chair as he sips his wine. Maybe if he had more wine Arthur wouldn’t care if he didn’t control himself . . . 

Right, then. 

He stands up. “All right everyone we’ve all had a long day so I think it’s about time everyone got home.” 

Of course no one moves or even looks at him. Arthur feels his headache come back in force and rubs the frown lines between his eyes. He walks out to the hall where he’s left his jacket, and comes back with Francis’ pistol. “Everyone out, before I shoot Gilbert.” He points the gun at the ex-nations’ head. 

“Why me?” Gilbert asks sounds more annoyed then terrified of the whole thing.

“Because it’s been a while since I last shot you and right now it would make me feel bloody good.” 

“Arthur is right.” Francis sits up and stretches, “not about you Gilbert, but it is late.” 

Beside him Antonio sighs and then stands. “You need anything Francis, call me.” He touches the other nation’s cheek gently and then grabs Lovino’s arm. “Well we’d better get going. Goodnight everyone!”

Do not shoot Gilbert, England.” Feliciano pleads earnestly, clutching at Gilbert's arm. “He can’t help the way he is. God made him that way.”

“Hey!” Gilbert looks as fronted as possible with Feliciano attached to him, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Arthur sighs again and lowers his weapon while the small Italian drags one German brother in the direction of other one. “We should go home now Ludwig.” Feliciano tells him before turning to Francis, “Thank you big brother for letting us come over and eat lovely food with you.” He bounces over to the couch and kisses Francis on the cheek “and thank you for letting me touch your tentacle.” He beams and Arthur sighs and rubs his forehead again.

“Little Feliciano is very welcome.” Francis squeezes the smaller nations’ hand before Feliciano is once more on the move taking one of Gilbert’s and Ludwig’s hands in each of his and drags them first into the kitchen to collect the dishes they had brought. 

Gilbert waves cheerily at Francis as he’s dragged by, “Call me.” He mimes holding a telephone.   
Ludwig pulls away from Italy’s grasp and moves across the room to stand by Francis. He puts one hand gently on Francis’ shoulder. “If there is anything I can do. . .” his voice is serious and his gaze searches Francis’ face for a moment, his thumb smooths over the skin at the base of Francis’ throat and Francis nods face also serious. 

“I will call.” Francis says and Ludwig nods and moves away back towards his brother and Feliciano who reaches once more for his hand. The three of them move out into the hall to put on their coats and then the door bangs shut and Arthur sighs. 

“Well it has been a long day.” Kiku moves away from Arthur’s abandoned armchair where he had been leaning, smoothing on hand down his impeccable dress shirt, “I should be going as well.” He gives Francis a long searching look for a moment, “I am sorry France that I could not be of more help. I will however continue to research this and if I come up with anything that could be of use I will let you know.” He bows to Francis. “Once again I am sorry.” 

Arthur glances at Francis and then follows the smaller nation to the door, watches him pull on his tailored, black overcoat. “You as well England.” Kiku reaches out a hand stopping just short of Arthur’s shoulder, “If you need anything,” his hand ghosts down Arthur’s arm, fingertips brushing lightly across the back of the other nations hand. “Please call.” 

The door shuts behind the smaller nation and Arthur blinks. He shakes himself once and then goes back to the living room picking up stray cups and plates and brings them into the kitchen, begins running water into the sink. 

“Are you staying here tonight?”

Arthur looks over his shoulder to see Francis leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, robe firmly tied around him, hair starting to come loose from his sloppy ponytail framing his face. If Arthur doesn’t look down he can pretend tonight is just like any other night. 

“If you don’t want me here I can go home.” Arthur looks back down at the sink, concentrates on running the brush around the inside of one serving dish. 

Behind him Francis sighs, “no stay, please.” Arthur looks back around at Francis who looks tired and worn out.

“Then go and lie down.” It comes out a little gruffer sounding that Arthur meant and he looks back down at the sink, “I’ll finish up here.” 

He can feel Francis’ gaze on his back for a few moments more and then Francis turns and Arthur listens to him make his way back through the apartment. Arthur concentrates on the dishes, doing the washing up. It soothes him as housework always does. It stops his hands from shaking, makes him feel a little calmer by the time he makes his way to Francis bedroom.   
Francis is already in bed, reading. His hair is pulled over one shoulder in a loose braid, a pair of steel framed reaching glasses perched on his nose. He’s also naked. Arthur looks away and tries not to think about that too much. He sits heavily at the end of the bed takes off his shoes and socks, and pulls off his shirt and jumper, before going to rummage through Francis’ closet. He comes up with an old oversized t-shirt, much too big for him, that says “I heart London” across the front. Alfred had given it to him as a joke about five years ago and Arthur only ever uses it to sleep in. He kicks off his trousers, so that he’s only in his boxers and pulls on the oversized t-shirt before wandering into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He comes back out and flops down on the bed next to Francis, folding his arms across his eyes. After a minutes or two Arthur hears Francis shut his book, then he feels Francis breath ghost across his hair, Francis fingers brush against one elbow. Francis kisses his ear, his glasses bumping against the side of Arthur’s temples. His fingers stroke the length of Arthur’s arms, and Francis lips moves down his jaw, then up again, to leave small light kisses against his hair. Francis pulls Arthur’s arms slowly away from his face. Arthur keeps his eyes closed, keeps himself still as Francis kisses him gently across the forehead and nose. He shivers when Francis’ hand strokes along the soft cotton of the older t-shirt, across his chest. Arthur opens his eyes finally, reaches up to pull off Francis’ glasses, folding them carefully and setting them down on top of a stack of books next to the bed. He reaches up and curls his arms around Francis’ neck, pulls him down for a kiss. 

Their lips move together, warm and gentle and Francis sighs into the kiss. Arthur rocks up, pushes a little against Francis’ lips, tightens his arms around the other nation’s neck. Francis’ fingers slide into Arthur’s short hair, pulls maybe a little rougher then strictly necessary. Arthur makes small hungry sounds, kissing Francis back hard. The next thing he knows his arms are being held firmly over his head and his legs are forced apart. Francis’ fingers are still tangled tight in his hair, the other one of Francis’ hands is cupping his jaw, and Francis’ tongue is forcing its way into Arthur’s mouth. 

The way his body is being held immobile, the feeling of Francis’ hand in his hair, the way Francis is kissing him is making one part of Arthur’s mind scream, yes, yes, God yes! While another part of his mind is keenly aware that the appendages holding his arms and legs are smooth, and strong with velvety suckers pressed against his skin. His body is in turmoil wanting to press into Francis and way at the same time. When Francis breaks the kiss Arthur pants for air trying to clear his head. 

“Francis, I can’t-” 

Francis sighs and draws back until the only part of him still touching Arthur is the hand lightly cupping Arthur’s jaw. “I know.”   
“I’m sorry.” Arthur says miserably. 

Francis laughs a sound that has absolutely no joy in it, “what for Angleterre? It is not your fault you cannot bear to have me touch you.” 

Arthur feels his cheeks go hot, “It’s not like that.” 

“Non?” a tentacle curls up Arthur’s leg, another rising to brush against his cheek and Arthur can’t stop himself from flinching and silently damns his body’s transparent reactions. 

“It’s new. I’m not used to you being this way.” Arthur grits his teeth and glare a little at Francis, “give me time.” 

Francis sighs and his tentacles curl away from Arthur wrapping themselves almost protectively around Francis’ body, “I know.”

Francis leans forward to lightly kiss Arthur’s lips and nose before getting up and heading into the bathroom. Arthur listens to the shower run for several minutes and then Francis comes back out carrying a wet towel. He lies back down beside Arthur without speaking and drapes the towel across his chest before turning off the light. 

“I’m sorry.” Arthur says to the darkened ceiling. He listens to Francis breath, listens to the little rustling noises Francis’ tentacles make against the sheets as Francis relaxes and they slowly uncurl from his body. Arthur watches shadows from the window play against the ceiling, does not finch or pull away when Francis breathing evens out and his tentacles, slowly curl around Arthur’s legs. He keeps himself still, keeps himself close but not quite touching Francis, but he doesn’t sleep a lot either.


	6. Chapter 6

Francis sulks for the next two days. He doesn’t do his work, and he most certainly doesn’t leave the apartment. He doesn’t cook, he doesn’t fuss about his appearance, he doesn’t call Russia or Spain, or Germany simply to talk. Arthur goes home the morning of the first day of the sulk. He has his own work to do, and he also can’t deal with Francis when the other nation mopes, to put it mildly. It’s actually been a long time since Arthur started a war with Francis and he’d rather like to keep it that way.   
  
Day three Francis calls Arthur up and sweetly asks him to come around for dinner. Arthur says yes, because  _a._  he has been a little bit worried about how Francis is coping, and  _b._  he really doesn’t feel like eating take-away curry again.   
  
Arthur nocks briskly on the door before letting himself in.   
  
“In the kitchen.” Francis calls and Arthur hangs up his coat and scarf before moving towards the kitchen.   


He stops in the doorway and leans against the frame watching the other nation. Francis is in cooking mode, attention fully on what he’s doing as he moves around the kitchen. He moves back and for from the pans on the stove, to the cutting board on the counter, adding things here, and stirring there. His hair is tied back, and he is wearing what looks like a black dress shirt under his apron, except for the fact that it goes well past his waist, to what would be mid-thigh if his bottom half hadn’t still been a mass of tentacles. It takes a few minutes of staring before Arthur realizes Francis is in fact wearing a dress. His cheeks go warm at the realization. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Francis in dress.  
  
Francis turns and smiles at him, and Arthur smiles back a little tentatively.

“You seem to be in a good mood.” Arthur moves across the kitchen and takes down two plates, carries them to the little table Francis usually eats at.

Francis hums a little to himself while he stirs the sauce. “I decided to stop sulking,” He moves a pot off the stove and transfers the green beans into a bowl, before carrying them to the table. “Besides, I have decided I like the way I look.”   
  
“Really?” Arthur raises both eyebrows.   
  
Francis sets another dish on table before turn to him, his tentacles writhe up around, curling around Francis own waist, twisting around a few curls of Francis’ hair that have come loose. “I am not classically beautiful like this,” Francis gestures down to himself, “but there is something . . . captivating about it, something strange, and different.”   
  
Arthur stares at the other nation as Francis’ smile become calculating and sharp edged. Francis is many things including a performer, Arthur reminds himself, watching the way Francis’s arms move elegantly, his tentacles following the motions, curling up, uncurling, twisting around Francis, waist, and loosely around his arms, reach out for Arthur. Arthur takes a small step back. Francis doesn’t seem as upset by Arthur’s reluctance as he had earlier that week only smiles and glides back into the kitchen to get the rest of the food. 

Their dinner is quiet, and their conversation mostly about politics although they steer clear of the subjects they really disagree on. When they are done Arthur helps to clear the plates into the kitchen and washes the dishes while Francis takes a shower and answers a call from Kiku.  
  
“He says he hasn’t found anything that will change me back.” Francis tells Arthur leaning against the kitchen counter trying his hair with hand towel. “But he thinks he has found something that will help me breathe without being moist.” Francis makes a face, “which is good because showering this often is a bit tiresome.” He eyes Arthur up and down, “especially showering alone.” Arthur is fully expecting it and so is therefore not at all surprised when Francis gropes his arse. Arthur rolls his eyes and grabs Francis wandering hand moving it up to rest of Arthur’s hip instead.   
  
“Do you want me to stay?” Arthur puts he last dish in the drainer to dry and turns around to face Francis.   
  
Francis bites his lip and then shakes his head; “I think it would be best if you didn’t.”  
  
He leans forward and kisses Arthur on the cheek.   
  
“Well then.” Arthur shifts a little uncomfortable. “I really should be going.”  
  
He goes into the hall to collect his coat and Francis follows him, “come around earlier next week?” Francis takes one of Arthur’s hands as Arthur shrugs on his coat, “we can go out for coffee?”   
  
Arthur nods “Sure, I suppose.”   
  
Francis kisses him lightly the cheek one last time and Arthur lets himself out.   



	7. Chapter 7

Something’s wrong, Arthur can’t shake the feeling that they are heading down a road he doesn’t want to go down yet. Maybe he should have stayed, maybe he should have argued with Francis when Francis told him to leave. Arthur lies in his own very comfortable bed, in his own house just outside of London and thinks that when it comes to his and Francis’ relationship he’s doing something wrong. Again. 

“I know we never agreed on anything.” Francis sips his coffee and Arthur stares down at his own before looking back up at Francis.   
  
Francis is wearing a dress again, red silk and slinky, in a Europeanized, vaguely Chinese, style. The dress has a high collar and swallows embroidered all over it in black and gold. Francis’ hair is piled on top of his head with gold hairpins and he’s wearing sunglasses, seemingly completely obvious to the stares they keep getting from everyone else at the café. Francis is also sitting primly in a wheelchair, tentacles curled up underneath the dress and out of sight. It had made Arthur slightly nauseas the first time he’d seen Francis in the chair, his mind flashing back to the first year after the Great War.   
  
“But I was thinking.” Francis sets down his cup and looks at Arthur, “we should maybe have some time apart.”   
  
Arthur sets his own cup down and Francis’ eyes are gentle when he reaches across the table and touches Arthur’s wrist. “These past few decades have been good.” Francis’ long fingers gently stroke the fragile skin on the inside of Arthur’s wrist; “It is always good between us, when it works.” Arthur bites his lip and Francis looks down at the table, “but it never lasts forever, you and I.” He pulls his hand back and picks back up his cup, “and now I think it would be for the best if we saw other people.”   
  
“Francis-” Arthur starts “Why?”  
  
“Because I rather we end it now civilly with the possibility of getting back together in a few decades when things are different, then wait until-” Francis trails off and runs one finger around the edge of his cup eyes firmly fixed on the table, “until something happens.”   
  
Arthur’s eyes narrow, “I don’t plan on cheating on you Francis.”   
  
“Non.” Francis gives the tabletop a small, tight smile, “I know you are not, not now. But five years-two decades down the road when you still can’t bear to have me touch you,” Francis’ hand clenches into a fist next to his half empty coffee cup, “when my body still disgusts you . . .” Francis lets the statement trail off again and then adds in a small voice, “and I know there are other nations, prettier and younger than me.”   
  
“Nonsense. Don’t be so dramatic.” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and glares at his coffee. He’s holding his shoulders stiff, hunched up towards his ears. “You talk as if I spread my legs for just any nation, I’m not a whore Francis. It’s not just about the sex, you know.”  _Don’t talk about yourself that way I can’t stand it_.  
  
Francis sighs and picks back up his cup, “you say that now.” He murmurs before taking a sip. “But are going really going to be that idealistic fifty years from now?”   
  
“What about you?” Arthur shoots back arms crossed over his chest, “how can I tell if you’ll be willing to wait, for all I know you’ve already gotten bored and started looking for someone willing to let you shag them. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time.”   
  
They stare at each other for a long tense moment and finally Francis holds up is hands, “This is exactly why I think we need some time apart Angleterre.”   
  
“Fine” Arthur scrubs one hand angrily across his face, “if that’s what will make you happy.”   
  
“Arthur-” Francis reaches for him but Arthur jerks his arms way and stands up grabbing his coat and heading for the exit. 

 

VIII.

Arthur mopes for three weeks. He goes to his office, where he works in grim silence until all the paper work is done. Then he goes home in the evenings, puts on one of his over-sized, brown, knit jumpers Francis always laughs at him for wearing. He spends most of his evenings watching the telly, and embroidering tiny sets of skulls and crossbones onto the pockets of one of his favorite pairs of jeans. He eats take-away curry, and ignores all his calls and text messages from everyone except for the Prime Minister. He generally feels pretty sorry for himself.   
  
After three weeks it’s Canada, who finally manages to successfully contact him.   
  
_What is going on between you and Papa?_    
  
He emails Arthur.   
  
_Are you two fighting again? Is it because of what happened to Papa? Did you leave him? He’s not okay Arthur. Russia’s been over there a lot and Papa’s pretending everything’s fine but it’s not and I’m worried about both of you. So is Alfred by the way. He’s been trying to call and text you but he says you’re ignoring him. So whatever is going on with you and Papa, you two need to talk, please._  
Matthew.   
  
Arthur rubs his face, and tries to push away the spike of jealousy that goes through him at the mention of Russia. He also pushes away the pang of guilt and worry, at the idea of Francis being unhappy. He doesn’t write back to Matthew, instead he fidgets around the house and then starts cleaning. About three hours later he’s cleaned his kitchen so that it’s spotless, he’s cleaned out the closet in one of his guest bedrooms, and he’s swept every hall in the house. By the time he’s beginning to think now might be a good time to tackle the hall closet he hasn’t touched since before the Second World War, he tells himself to man up. After a little more deliberation, he grits his teeth packs a small bag and buys himself a plane ticket.

It’s time to take the beast by the horns, as it were. 

Kiku blinks a little surprised at Arthur when the other nation turns up on his doorstep some time later feeling hungry and jetlagged.   
  
“England? How can I help you?”   
  
“You can let me in and give me a cup of tea to begin with.” Arthur tells him and Kiku stands back from the door with a slight smile on his face.   
  
England kneels a little awkwardly and watches the other nation make tea. Kiku makes green tea for himself and black tea for England and fixes it just the way England likes it before coming and sitting beside the other nation.   
  
“What do you need England-san?”   
  
Arthur sighs and sips his tea watching Kiku. He’s only ever seen the other nation in simple, cotton kimonos when Kiku is at home, but today the smaller nation is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt printed with some sort of abstract design, and he has a pair of back framed reading glasses pitched on his nose.   
  
“I need advice.” Arthur rubs one finger around the edge of his teacup, “Francis and I . . .things haven’t been going so well between us.” He takes a breath, “I need to make him understand that I don’t care what he looks like or if he has, well tentacles.”  
  
Kiku tilts his head to the side a little, “but it does matter doesn’t it? At least when I was at France’s apartment it seemed as if you were not completely comfortable with-” Kiku waves one small hand elegantly in the air “his state.”   
  
“Well,” Arthur rubs the back of his neck and suddenly finds the floor very interesting. “It’s just not what I’m used to, you see. I’ve known Francis for a long time, a very,  _very_  long time.” He takes a swallow of tea to fortify himself, “for as long as I’ve been conscious of being, Francis, he’s just always been there. Always the same, beautiful, alluring, with those long hands, and perfect lips-” Arthur suddenly realizes he’s rambling and turns scarlet. “We don’t change Kiku, the world changes around us, ideas change, what we stand for changes, our children change, but we don’t.”   
  
Kiku ‘tisks’ a little setting down his cup. “You know that is not true, we all change. Be honest, do you think you are the same nation you were, two hundred years ago, a thousand, even fifty years ago?”   
  
“I didn’t have tentacles instead of legs fifty years ago.”   
  
Kiku sighs and folds his hands in his lap, “Do you love him?”   
  
Arthur blinks, “yes of course.”   
  
“So it is just his new form standing in the way.” He seems to ponder this silently for a few minutes. “Have you thought about having sex with him in this form?”   
  
Arthur chokes on his tea a little, “Pardon?” 

Kiku stands up, “come here.” He leads Arthur into another room in the apartment, this one contains a low desk with a computer on it and a pile of papers next to it, the wall on the other side of the room has a series of bookcases. Kiku walks over to the bookcases and then kneels and starts going through the books on the lowest shelves. He takes a few thin volumes and sets them aside. Finally, he hands a small pile of volumes to Arthur.  
  
“Read these.” Kiku tells the other nation “I am going to do a little work, but if you have questions please feel free to ask.”   
  
Arthur takes the volumes with a sense of vague foreboding, and isn’t really that surprised to discover that they are in fact porn, of both the written and drawn variety. Sitting there reading porn while Kiku types away on his computer is intimidating but luckily Arthur isn’t really all that shy about sex in general. Plus he’d known this was how it would probably go when he came here, so he grits his teeth and gets down to it.   
  
Each story doesn’t really have that much in common with the next except for the fact that they all in some way or other involve tentacles in sexual situations. It’s weird and a little creepy and Arthur is hyper away of Kiku only a few feet away from him, and of the odd, strange,  _wrongness_  of what the authors are describing (or in some cases drawing).

After a while though he begins, almost against his will, to become aware of other things. He’s stewing in a sea of embarrassed, creeped-out, not at all okay-ness when he suddenly realizes that women in the picture is being held completely immobile, tentacles wrapped around her legs and wrists, as she writhes in intense pleasure. He stares at the picture for a long time as memories of Francis holding him down like that flood his mind. He remembers Francis’s tentacles holding his arms over his head, his legs spread as Francis kissed him hungrily, and tongue fucking his mouth.

Arthur is suddenly, painfully aroused and he swallows dryly and moves on to the next volume. The next volume is if anything worse because it is about a young man and the tentacled demon not only holds him down but also spanks him and fucks him with his tentacles, while not letting him come. Arthur shifts uncomfortably, trying to hide his hard on and has to set the volume aside and rub one hand across his face.   
  
“Kiku.” He has to swallow several times to make his voice come out right, “may I ask you rather personal question?”   
  
Kiku turns and gives him an amused look over the top of his glasses, “Of course.”   
  
“Do you,” he picks at the edge of one of the volumes for a moment, “do you finds this sort of thing arousing?”   
  
Kiku doesn’t even flinch, instead he taps two fingers against the top of his desk, “Yes.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
Kiku looks down at his hand lying against the desktop, “I am attracted to the fantasy and the kink, but mostly the idea of having a sexual partner who is able to totally control and pleasure you like that. Someone or something that can give you everything all at once.” Kiku blushes a little, “You can take those with you if you want.”   
  
Arthur can’t help but blush a little himself as he scoops up the arm full of books. He’s never taken anyone else’s porn. Well except for Francis’ when it had looked particularly interesting, and that sort of thing had been illegal in his own country. Alfred’s too but in his own defense the lad had been too young for that sort of thing anyway.   
  
“Arthur.” Arthur looks down when Kiku grabs his wrist, “I really hope everything works out between you and France. But if it doesn’t,” Kiku lets go of Arthur and looks back at his computer screen, “you do have my phone number.”   
  
Arthur blinks several times as his brain tries to catch up, and he flushes an even darker red when it finally does, “Yes well, I’ll just let myself out shall I?” Kiku hums in acknowledgement and looks up at Arthur with dark eyes dancing with laughter, and Arthur ducks his head starting for the door. He pauses in the doorway and looks back at Kiku who’s still watching him from his desk, “take care.”  
  
“You as well.” Kiku gets up and follows him and watches as Arthur hails down a cab in the street outside, heading for the airport. 


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur mopes for three weeks. He goes to his office, where he works in grim silence until all the paper work is done. Then he goes home in the evenings, puts on one of his over-sized, brown, knit jumpers Francis always laughs at him for wearing. He spends most of his evenings watching the telly, and embroidering tiny sets of skulls and crossbones onto the pockets of one of his favorite pairs of jeans. He eats take-away curry, and ignores all his calls and text messages from everyone except for the Prime Minister. He generally feels pretty sorry for himself.   
  
After three weeks it’s Canada, who finally manages to successfully contact him.   
  
_What is going on between you and Papa?_    
  
He emails Arthur.   
  
_Are you two fighting again? Is it because of what happened to Papa? Did you leave him? He’s not okay Arthur. Russia’s been over there a lot and Papa’s pretending everything’s fine but it’s not and I’m worried about both of you. So is Alfred by the way. He’s been trying to call and text you but he says you’re ignoring him. So whatever is going on with you and Papa, you two need to talk, please._  
Matthew.   
  
Arthur rubs his face, and tries to push away the spike of jealousy that goes through him at the mention of Russia. He also pushes away the pang of guilt and worry, at the idea of Francis being unhappy. He doesn’t write back to Matthew, instead he fidgets around the house and then starts cleaning. About three hours later he’s cleaned his kitchen so that it’s spotless, he’s cleaned out the closet in one of his guest bedrooms, and he’s swept every hall in the house. By the time he’s beginning to think now might be a good time to tackle the hall closet he hasn’t touched since before the Second World War, he tells himself to man up. After a little more deliberation, he grits his teeth packs a small bag and buys himself a plane ticket.

It’s time to take the beast by the horns, as it were. 

Kiku blinks a little surprised at Arthur when the other nation turns up on his doorstep some time later feeling hungry and jetlagged.   
  
“England? How can I help you?”   
  
“You can let me in and give me a cup of tea to begin with.” Arthur tells him and Kiku stands back from the door with a slight smile on his face.   
  
England kneels a little awkwardly and watches the other nation make tea. Kiku makes green tea for himself and black tea for England and fixes it just the way England likes it before coming and sitting beside the other nation.   
  
“What do you need England-san?”   
  
Arthur sighs and sips his tea watching Kiku. He’s only ever seen the other nation in simple, cotton kimonos when Kiku is at home, but today the smaller nation is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt printed with some sort of abstract design, and he has a pair of back framed reading glasses pitched on his nose.   
  
“I need advice.” Arthur rubs one finger around the edge of his teacup, “Francis and I . . .things haven’t been going so well between us.” He takes a breath, “I need to make him understand that I don’t care what he looks like or if he has, well tentacles.”  
  
Kiku tilts his head to the side a little, “but it does matter doesn’t it? At least when I was at France’s apartment it seemed as if you were not completely comfortable with-” Kiku waves one small hand elegantly in the air “his state.”   
  
“Well,” Arthur rubs the back of his neck and suddenly finds the floor very interesting. “It’s just not what I’m used to, you see. I’ve known Francis for a long time, a very,  _very_  long time.” He takes a swallow of tea to fortify himself, “for as long as I’ve been conscious of being, Francis, he’s just always been there. Always the same, beautiful, alluring, with those long hands, and perfect lips-” Arthur suddenly realizes he’s rambling and turns scarlet. “We don’t change Kiku, the world changes around us, ideas change, what we stand for changes, our children change, but we don’t.”   
  
Kiku ‘tisks’ a little setting down his cup. “You know that is not true, we all change. Be honest, do you think you are the same nation you were, two hundred years ago, a thousand, even fifty years ago?”   
  
“I didn’t have tentacles instead of legs fifty years ago.”   
  
Kiku sighs and folds his hands in his lap, “Do you love him?”   
  
Arthur blinks, “yes of course.”   
  
“So it is just his new form standing in the way.” He seems to ponder this silently for a few minutes. “Have you thought about having sex with him in this form?”   
  
Arthur chokes on his tea a little, “Pardon?” 

Kiku stands up, “come here.” He leads Arthur into another room in the apartment, this one contains a low desk with a computer on it and a pile of papers next to it, the wall on the other side of the room has a series of bookcases. Kiku walks over to the bookcases and then kneels and starts going through the books on the lowest shelves. He takes a few thin volumes and sets them aside. Finally, he hands a small pile of volumes to Arthur.  
  
“Read these.” Kiku tells the other nation “I am going to do a little work, but if you have questions please feel free to ask.”   
  
Arthur takes the volumes with a sense of vague foreboding, and isn’t really that surprised to discover that they are in fact porn, of both the written and drawn variety. Sitting there reading porn while Kiku types away on his computer is intimidating but luckily Arthur isn’t really all that shy about sex in general. Plus he’d known this was how it would probably go when he came here, so he grits his teeth and gets down to it.   
  
Each story doesn’t really have that much in common with the next except for the fact that they all in some way or other involve tentacles in sexual situations. It’s weird and a little creepy and Arthur is hyper away of Kiku only a few feet away from him, and of the odd, strange,  _wrongness_  of what the authors are describing (or in some cases drawing).

After a while though he begins, almost against his will, to become aware of other things. He’s stewing in a sea of embarrassed, creeped-out, not at all okay-ness when he suddenly realizes that women in the picture is being held completely immobile, tentacles wrapped around her legs and wrists, as she writhes in intense pleasure. He stares at the picture for a long time as memories of Francis holding him down like that flood his mind. He remembers Francis’s tentacles holding his arms over his head, his legs spread as Francis kissed him hungrily, and tongue fucking his mouth.

Arthur is suddenly, painfully aroused and he swallows dryly and moves on to the next volume. The next volume is if anything worse because it is about a young man and the tentacled demon not only holds him down but also spanks him and fucks him with his tentacles, while not letting him come. Arthur shifts uncomfortably, trying to hide his hard on and has to set the volume aside and rub one hand across his face.   
  
“Kiku.” He has to swallow several times to make his voice come out right, “may I ask you rather personal question?”   
  
Kiku turns and gives him an amused look over the top of his glasses, “Of course.”   
  
“Do you,” he picks at the edge of one of the volumes for a moment, “do you finds this sort of thing arousing?”   
  
Kiku doesn’t even flinch, instead he taps two fingers against the top of his desk, “Yes.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
Kiku looks down at his hand lying against the desktop, “I am attracted to the fantasy and the kink, but mostly the idea of having a sexual partner who is able to totally control and pleasure you like that. Someone or something that can give you everything all at once.” Kiku blushes a little, “You can take those with you if you want.”   
  
Arthur can’t help but blush a little himself as he scoops up the arm full of books. He’s never taken anyone else’s porn. Well except for Francis’ when it had looked particularly interesting, and that sort of thing had been illegal in his own country. Alfred’s too but in his own defense the lad had been too young for that sort of thing anyway.   
  
“Arthur.” Arthur looks down when Kiku grabs his wrist, “I really hope everything works out between you and France. But if it doesn’t,” Kiku lets go of Arthur and looks back at his computer screen, “you do have my phone number.”   
  
Arthur blinks several times as his brain tries to catch up, and he flushes an even darker red when it finally does, “Yes well, I’ll just let myself out shall I?” Kiku hums in acknowledgement and looks up at Arthur with dark eyes dancing with laughter, and Arthur ducks his head starting for the door. He pauses in the doorway and looks back at Kiku who’s still watching him from his desk, “take care.”  
  
“You as well.” Kiku gets up and follows him and watches as Arthur hails down a cab in the street outside, heading for the airport. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

“You need to talk to him, Frantsiya” Ivan says, again. He’s beginning to sound like a broken record, repeating the same thing, over and over again.   
  
Francis sniffs and clenches his hands, “non, this is better.”   
  
Ivan inwardly sighs. At this rate he’s actually starting to feel nostalgic for the Francis who slept with everyone without a thought for the consequences, a feat Ivan has hitherto thought impossible. At least that Francis would never have done this to himself.   
  
“You are miserable like this.” Ivan says, again, trying to be reasonable.   
  
They are sitting on Francis’ couch; surround by the remains of the lunch Francis had made them and stacks of paperwork. Ivan personally can’t understand what Francis saw, or had ever seen, in England. However, he does understand that whatever Francis thinks he is accomplishing by cutting himself off from the other nation in reality he is just making himself miserable. Ivan also hopes that Francis’ decision is making Arthur equally as miserable and not simply out of spite, he needs them to talk.

He loves Francis, really, but he needs to get back to his own work and his own life. Not to mention his own, very unstable, relationship he’s trying to nurse into life. He also needs to stop having to field worried calls from Spain, Germany, and Canada nearly twenty-four/seven. God only knows why Spain thinks it was a good idea to send worried text messages to  _Russia’s_  cellphone about Francis’ wellbeing at four in the morning. One of these days Ivan is going to go over there and explain to the suicidal idiot exactly what he thinks of being woken out of a sound sleep by yet another message in Antonio’s own personal brand of text-speak.  
  
“Francis.” He says taking a sip of his quickly cooling coffee, “Angliya loves you. You two can work this out, you just need to talk.” Lord help him, when did he become the sensible one? He throws a glance at Francis curled up in the corner of the couch, tentacles curled around him. Francis closes his eyes for a moment and Ivan allows himself to lean in the direction of hoping that maybe Francis might start seeing reason.   
  
Francis shakes his head, “non, this is for the best, I cannot deal with this,” he gestures down at himself, “and losing him, Russe.”   
  
Ivan lets that hope slip away. “He was not leaving you Francis, you left him. He was in shock, as we all were.” It hadn’t actually fazed him the first time he’d seen Francis’ with tentacles and that in itself had been slightly troubling. He takes another sip of coffee. 

“My boss has been going crazy.” Francis hands are clenched in his lap again, “everyone is worrying about what this means, that I am like this, what this represents for our future, my children. Nations don’t spontaneously mutate unless there is something very wrong. We are very close to considering it an emergency situation.”   
  
Ivan stops, cup half way to his mouth, and gives him a concerned look. For a moment images of top-secret government labs, all concrete and steel with drains in the floor, flash through Ivan’s mind and he feels slightly sick. He pushes his fear away; Francis would tell him if that was even a faint possibility. Wouldn’t he? Would Francis know? No, Francis was smart and had survived so much already, Francis would know. Maybe he should have a talk with Germany anyway. Just to be safe. Sometimes it did indeed pay to be paranoid.   
  
“And maybe they are right” Francis voice shakes Ivan out of his inner thoughts, “maybe there is something terribly wrong with my land, my children,” there is something almost haunted in Francis’ eyes. “Kiku hasn’t found anything yet, no one has any idea how this happened or-” Francis stops looking away and for a long moment Ivan isn’t sure he’s going to continue at all, “I might truly be like this forever.” Francis voice is soft and scared, and Ivan reaches out and pulls the other nation close so that Francis’ head can rest of his shoulder. He strokes Francis’ hair, and whispers quiet, soothing things in Russian and Francis’ eyes drift closed.   
  
“You accept help from all of us who care about you.” Ivan finally says softly and Francis eyes open, “As you should, but Francis, why don’t you accept it from the one who loves you?”   
  
Francis shudders all over at that and then pushes himself up and off the couch without answering or looking at Ivan and goes into the kitchen instead. Ivan stares at the spot where Francis had been for a moment and seriously contemplates banging his head against the nearest wall. 


	10. Chapter 10

_Francis is emaciated; every bone in his body juts out visibly at an angle, his hair is thinning and his legs no longer support him. He knows that Arthur is hurting too, eyes surrounded by dark circles, and Germany hadn’t even been conscious the last time Francis had seen him. Francis feels tired, every day is a struggle, and every night is filled with terror. Trenches, piles of stinking corps, rats and poison gas, the air reeks of disease and death and decay, and more often than not he wakes crying and afraid._  
  
_He wants to rebuild his country, his beautiful land and its children that he loves so much, but every day feels like a fight just to function. Arthur is there more then he isn’t, quite frankly more then he should be because Francis know he has his own children to look after. Arthur chooses to be with him though, chooses to stay by Francis so that he can hold him when Francis wakes afraid, help Francis up into his wheelchair every morning, make sure Francis eats things he will be able to keep down. He even helps Francis bathe when his hands shake too badly to do it himself. Arthur grumbles and makes little pointed comments, calls him ‘frog’ and ‘bastard’. His hands are always gentle though, and he touches Francis as if he were still the most beautiful thing on the face of the Earth._  
  
_When Alfred comes to Paris with his President, he treats Francis like he’s made out of blown glass. After about the sixth time during one of the endless official dinners that Alfred asks if Francis needs anything Arthur finally snaps._  


_“For God’s sake, Alfred, if he needed something, he’d bloody well ask.” Arthur hisses reaching across the table to rap Alfred sharply across the knuckles. Alfred looks every much like the chastened schoolboy Arthur has just treated him as._  
  
_“Thank you,” Francis says after dinner while he clings to Arthur’s arms as Arthur helps into the bathtub, “for not treating me like the rest, with pity.”_  
  
_Arthur snorts, as he makes sure Francis is comfortably propped up against the side of the tub. “No need to thank me frog. I’m just here to make sure you don’t drown yourself and traumatize the maids. ”_  
  
_Francis laughs and Arthur leans forward to kiss him on the shoulder._  
  
Francis shakes his head and then pushes the wineglass a little across the top of his marble counter with the tips of his fingers. He sighs and picks up the glass taking a smaller sip. Today he had met with the Minister of Defense again, about his condition. It had not been a pleasant meeting although everyone had been very gracious and polite they had treated him like some kind of threat. Some kind of threat to his own people.   
  
Francis looks down at his hand wrapped around the wineglass and sees that it is shaking. Ivan says to talk to Arthur. He says so every time he visits. Francis knows that if he were to ask Arthur would be strong, would stand by him not matter what. Francis has never asked that of Arthur though, has never come out and said he needed Arthur, because he was scared, because he wasn’t strong enough.   
  
There is a small crack and Francis looks down to see he’s pulverized the wineglass in his hand. He reaches across to the sink with one tentacle, grabs a dishcloth and starts mopping up spilled wine. He thinks of the times when Arthur had wanted more than anything to destroy everything good in Francis’ life and bring him low. He bites his lower lip and wipes pieces of glass into the trash-bin and thinks of the slightly frumpy, very strange man he’s known for the last hundred years or so.   
  
Prior to a few weeks ago they’d been together and monogamous for over two decades. Francis thinks about Arthur going shopping with him and doing the washing up. He thinks about Arthur in horrid brown jumpers, embroidering in front of the television at night and Arthur sorting socks while listening to punk rock. Arthur sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea while Francis cooks Christmas dinner for as many of their ex-colonies as they can coax back home for the Holidays. Francis curls up on the couch in the living room in his empty apartment and admits he’s in love with the silly little man. 

*~*~*

Arthur is not good at relationships; he never has been. They’ve pretty much all been disasters, except perhaps with Francis, but that was only because Francis didn’t know when to quit. Actually neither does Arthur, which is why he’s in his living room with a beer and a notepad actually planning out what he’s going to say to Francis as if it were a military maneuver. He’s good at planning military maneuvers after all. Usually he would just wait it out, give Francis a decade or so of space, knowing they’d eventually get back together, but he’s not doing that this time. Arthur not afraid to admit to himself that he cares about Francis, and he’s been there when Francis is in crisis and he’s not letting Francis push him away just because Francis is scared.   
  
He takes a gulp of beer and looks down at the pitiful amount of writing on his notepad. It wasn’t going well. Arthur glances at the clock and sighs. He gets up, wanders into the kitchen. He takes out a pre-made frozen dinner, carefully reads the instructions on the back of the box, puts it on a pan and slips it into the oven. He stands in front of the oven with the light on and watches the meat cook until the kitchen timer goes off. He goes back into the living room and retrieves his beer and notepad. He  _is_  going to do this. 

Arthur is walking back from the Indian restaurant around the corner from his flat with his take-away, planning out what he’s going to say to Francis is in his head. It’s a fine line between being forceful enough to convince the other nation that Arthur’s serious about this and not so forceful that Arthur starts a fight. Arthur doesn’t want to fight with Francis, he wants to convince Francis that this will be all right, that they will be all right. As he gets close to his destination he moves one of the bags he’s carrying to his other hand so he can have one hand free as he searches through his jacket pockets for his keys.   
  
“Problem, mes sourcils préférés?”   
  
Arthur looks up startled and Francis is standing beside his door in a floor-length black wool, silk trimmed coat and sunglasses.   
  
“Bloody hell.”   
  
Francis laughs and crosses the short distance to take the bags away from Arthur as the other nation sorts out his house keys.   
  
Francis glances down into the bags and raises his eyebrows, “would you like me to cook you dinner Arthur?”   
  
Arthur stops half way through unlocking the door and turns to look at the other nation and Francis looks back at him and Arthur slowly gives him a small nods. “It’s fine Francis, you don’t have to do that.”   
  
Arthur gets the door open and Francis sweeps by him to the kitchen leaving the bags on the table. It turns out there is nothing to cook with except for some boxes of pre-made food, beer and a carton of milk that had seen better days about two weeks ago.  
  
“I’m sorry, but even I cannot perform miracles.” Francis tells him ruefully as he pours the milk down the drain. 

Arthur shakes his head, “It’s not your fault.”   
  
They end up eating curry and rice sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch. Arthur slowly creeps closer to Francis as they eat until he is leaning against the other nations shoulder. Francis’ tentacles slowly relax from where they’ve been curled tightly around the other nation’s body and when Arthur feels one tentatively touch his waist, he doesn’t finch or pull away. The look Francis gives him is almost shy as one tentacle loosely curls around Arthur’s waist and pulls him close. Arthur only smiles at Francis and brings Francis’ free hand to rest on Arthur’s thigh and covers it with his own.   
  
Arthur doesn’t give Francis the speech he’d spent three days carefully constructing, and Francis doesn’t tell Arthur he’s sorry and he’s afraid and he wants Arthur to come back with him. Instead they finish their dinner in silence and then Francis lets Arthur put on reruns of Doctor Who until Francis falls asleep, head on Arthur’s shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francis calls Arthur roughly "my favorite eyebrows" in French.


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur sighs and tugs off his tie as he walks into his hotel room. He’s exhausted and has the beginnings of a headache coming on. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy visiting Alfred, Arthur usually finds the boy’s energy and enthusiasm refreshing, and he’d just rather be home right now with Francis. Alfred had kept him late too, first talking about the economy and then taking him out to dinner. Arthur liked spending time with Alfred, really he did, it had just been a long day.   
  
Arthur smiles a little as he sits on his bed, thinking about the last time he’d seen Francis. They’d slept in the same bed the night Francis had shown up at his flat and Arthur definitely missed sleeping curled up together. Not that he’d ever say that out loud of course. Lost in thoughts of sharing a bed with the French Republic Arthur suddenly realizes that they actually hadn’t had sex since before the appearance of Francis’ tentacles. Arthur frowns as he comes to another realization that he actually wants to have sex with Francis again.   
  
Arthur pulls his tie all the way off and flops down his bed for a few seconds before sitting up and unpacking his bags. He pulls off his suit and pads nude into the bathroom and runs a bath, then indulges himself in a nice long soak. Coming out of the bathroom feeling much more relaxed and slightly pruny, Arthur rummages through his suitcase looking for some more comfortable clothes. He ends up pulling on a worn Sex Pistols t-shirt, pajama bottoms and an over-sided slightly shapeless green jumper. He pulls out his computer and starts going through paperwork. Finally, after he’s done about as much paper work as he can get done that night, he stretches and glances at the clock. There is a bout a six-hour time difference between Paris and Washington DC but Arthur calculate it’s late enough that Francis should be up. He switches on Skype and dials up Francis. After a moment Francis' name pops up followed shortly by a slightly blurry picture.   
  
“Good morning.” Francis says, smiling, his hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. He has a cup of coffee in one hand and is wearing something high collared and black.   
  
“For you maybe.” Arthur curls his legs into his chest and props his chin on his knees, “it’s bloody late here.”   
  
“So how did your meeting go?” Francis pushes a stray curl of blond hair out of his face, “how is Alfred?”   
  
“His usual self” Arthur sighs leaning back a little against the headboard, “loud, unreasonable, exhausting,” He rubs his forehead, “he’s a good lad though, just young. I always forget that.”   
  
In the distance on Francis’ side Arthur can hear dishes clatter a little. Francis must be moving stuff with his tentacles.   
  
“I wish you were here.” Arthur finally says, resting his head on his knees again. He blushes a little at his own honesty. It’s been twenty years that this particular romantic relationship has lasted, with centuries of intensity between them and dozens of failed flings. It’s still hard for Arthur to actually vocalize his feels about Francis though especially to the other nation’s face, and doubly hard when those feels are of affection and love. Francis also looks down a little uncertainly at his hands.  
  
“Well I wish you were here, Arthur.” Francis brushes his hair over his shoulder and gives Arthur a little smile, almost painful in its emotional honesty.   
  
“And what would you do if I was there?” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows trying to ward off the emotion lying there between them. Francis smile becomes sharp-edged and knowing and his gaze rakes up and down as much of Arthur as he can see through the small camera and internet feed. Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes but he also moves on the bed so that the camera can take in more of him in his thin, baggy pajama bottoms, jumper and t-shirt. 

Francis gives him a thoughtful look and sets aside his coffee cup. “I have a conference call with Sarkozy in an hour.”   


“And I have to be up at five a.m. tomorrow to meet with Alfred again.”   
  
They stare at each other while Arthur’s laptop crackles a little. Arthur licks his lips and takes off his jumper followed by the Sex Pistols t-shirt. He runs one hand across his chest and is glad he’d turned up the heat so that the room his warm enough for him to feel comfortable. From the laptop he hears Francis make a small noise. Arthur’s hand drifts across his own chest rubbing small circles of heat against his own skin until his fingers touch one nipple. He thinks that they are probably too old for this and he’s never functioned well on only four to three hours of sleep.   
  
“Oh yes,” Francis says so softly Arthur almost doesn’t pick it up over the noise of the computer and Arthur’s fingers close around the small nub, squeezing and pulling until Arthur himself gasps.

“Arthur.” Francis says and Arthur looks back at the screen through half lidded eyes. “Take off your trousers.”

Arthur licks his lips and shimmies out of his pajama bottoms making sure he stays within the range of the camera. Francis makes a small amused noise when he sees that Arthur isn’t wearing anything under the bottoms.

“Touch yourself.” Francis tells him softly, “Imagine that it is me and I’m sitting behind you, arms around your waist fondling you, trying to make you hard for me.” Arthur’s eyes slide shut as he’s hand go to his still mostly soft cock, gently squeezing and rubbing at the head. “Yes, like that.” Francis voice is still calm, still controlled and Arthur bites his lip. “Start out slow. You know how I like to tease you.” Arthur’s fingers flick at the head of his cock. He gives himself several more long slow strokes before it’s too much and he can’t help but speed up, his grip tightening and becoming more hash. “So impatient.” Francis laughs quietly although it comes out sounding rather breathless, and Arthur grunts.  
  
“Get on with it Francis.”   
  
Francis makes another small amused noise, “then spread your legs.”   
  
Arthur doesn’t wait to be told before sticking his fingers in his mouth and sucking. He knows if they weren’t on opposite sides of the world Francis wouldn’t stand for his constant rushing, would force him to go slower, to behave as Francis wants him to. That thought alone makes him whine softly, God but he wishes Francis were here, not in Paris. He gives his cock a particularly rough squeeze as he pulls the fingers from his mouth.   
  
“Wish you were here.” Arthur tells Francis as he pushes two fingers inside of himself, gasping a little at the stretch and pull. “Want you inside of me.”

They both freeze for a moment what Arthur had just said hanging between them.   
  
“Arthur-” Francis begins sounding almost worried and Arthur takes a long shuddering breath, moving his fingers out and then back into his body.   
  
“I meant it.” He grinds out between clenched teeth finger fucking himself in earnest now. “I need you Francis.”   
  
He jerks himself off rapidly with his free hand and there is a lot of noise coming from the other end of the video feed now. Arthur has his eyes closed, but it sounds like things being knocked over.   
  
“Arthur, Oh God . . .” Francis’ voice is no longer steady, no longer in control. Arthur cracks his eyes open enough to see Francis has a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table, his tentacles curling and uncurling up around him as he leans towards the screen. Arthur wonders distantly if Francis can still come like this. He rolls to the side and then onto his hands and knees to give himself a better angle and Francis a better view. Francis is swearing now in French, which usually means his pretty far gone. Arthur works his cock as he fingers himself, twisting his wrist sharply, his thumbnail digging into the slit at the tip of his cock. Everything around him goes white.   
  
Arthur slowly becomes aware of feeling in his toes and then that he’s lying face down on the bed, with Francis panting harshly somewhere behind him. Arthur groans and rolls over.   
  
“I have to go.” Francis tells him regretfully after a few minutes, “I need to clean up before my conference call.”   
  
Arthur waves at him without really looking, “Do that then, I’ll be flying back to London on Thursday just so you know.”   
  
“I have a meeting with Ludwig in Berlin on Thursday.”   
  
“Well then Saturday, I’ll come to you.” Arthur closes his eyes and grasps one of the pillows on the bed, cuddling it to his chest, his body demanding sleep.   
  
“Very well.” There is a small pause, “sleep well, mon amour.”   
  
Arthur cracks on eye open at that, but the connection as already gone dead. 


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur plays with his pen and only half listens to George Osborne go on about the economy. Arthur already knows it was bad, he can feel it in the way his whole body aches, the way his migraines have gotten worse, not to mention the spontaneous nosebleeds. Also he’d much rather be in France right now, then here listening to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Actually more accurately he really wishes France could be in England. Arthur suppresses both the urge to shift a little in his seat and as well as slap himself on the forehead.   
  
He’d actually been planning to go to Paris as soon as Francis had gotten back from Berlin but this emergency meeting with the Chancellor of the Exchequer had come up instead. So here he is, listening to many people using different words to tell him that things are basically shite. Which everyone’s known for a year or so now.

Arthur doodles a little on the corner of the folder that he’s been given at the beginning of the meeting. It’s not that he wasn’t worried about the economy or concerned for his people’s well fair it was just that he didn’t see the point of having a stroke over this like Alfred was. He can remember the Black Death and five major out breaks of sweating sickness after all. He can remember London being wiped out, the royal court abandoned and bodies burnt in the streets. Almost half of the entire population of England had died during the Black Death. Arthur himself had been so sick and in so much pain that he had thought he would surely die too. He can remember Francis during the last great outbreak of the plague, locked away in one of his country estates, ashen and shaking, vomiting blood. He remembers what he’d told the other nation then,  _“don’t die yet frog, what would I do if you died and I wasn’t there to see it?”_  they had been so often at war then and hate had seemed to come so easily.

Arthur shifts restlessly in his seat; he wants to see Francis. Every time he thinks about the past and the centuries they had spent at each other’s throats he wants to remind himself that things aren’t like that anymore and maybe make up for a little lost time. Arthur becomes aware that George as stopped talking, and clears his throat, “yes well, keep me informed then.” Someone might have said something else to him but Arthur is too busy shoving his papers into his briefcase to pay attention. 

He’s in Paris a few hours later carrying an overnight bag and praying to the God he still nominally believes in that Francis didn’t also have some last minute meeting with Yao or anything like that. Luckily Francis opens the door on his second knock.   
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“Hello.”   
  
“Would you like to come in?” Francis moves away from the door letting Arthur in and Arthur notes that Francis is wearing a long, soft looking black tunic with a turtle-neck collar, and has his reading glasses perched on his nose. Arthur drops his overnight bag by the door.   
  
“How is Ludwig these days?”   
  
“He’s fine,” Francis leads the way into the living room and curls up on the couch, “at least one good things about these,” Francis waves his hand down at his tentacles, “I don’t take commercial flights any more, in fact I have a plane all to myself.”   
  
“Lucky you.” Arthur thought of his most recent flight to the US and grimaces. He walks over to the couch noting the coffee table in front of it his piled high with papers; Francis’ laptop and a half empty glass of wine. He moves a three ring binder onto the floor and sits on the couch next to Francis. Arthur glances at the other nation out of the corner of his eye and tries to think of something to say, or at least something that is neither, _hold me_  nor  _shag me senseless_. He rubs his hands against his thighs and wonders why he feels so awkward. He finds himself praying again, this time that they haven’t somehow regressed back to not knowing how to be in each other's company without fighting or fucking.   
  
“Well do you want me to make for dinner?” Francis gets up and glides into the kitchen and after a minute Arthur follows. Francis begins listing off things he could make as he moves around the kitchen opening drawers and looking in the refrigerator. Arthur watches from the doorway as Francis peers at the contents of a shelf, which seems to be mostly different kinds of flour and sugar. Francis sighs a little and tucks a curl of blond hair behind one ear. His glasses have slid to the tip of his nose and he peers over them at glass canisters neatly labeled in French. Arthur feels longing curl in his chest, mixed with tenderness and he clenches his hands into fists.   
  
“Francis.”   
  
Francis turns around and glances at him and then really looks. They are silent for a minute as Arthur struggles to figure out a way to put what he’s feeling into words.   
  
Francis breaks the silence first, “Arthur come here.”   
  
Arthur moves then, across the kitchen and Francis holds out his arms, pulls Arthur close. Arthur winds his own arms around Francis’ waist, as one of Francis’ hands and a tentacle settle on the slighter nation’s hip while the other hand cups the back of Arthur’s neck. Francis hooks his chin over Arthur’s shoulder so close that Arthur feels the other nation’s breath against his ear. Arthur buries is face in Francis’ hair, his eyes flutter shut and he takes several long deep breaths. Francis sighs softly and nuzzles at Arthur’s ear a little.   
  
“Alfred is beside himself over the financial crisis. The poor lad is sure he’ll never recover.” Arthur mutters finally, face pressed against Francis shoulder and Francis sighs again.   
  
“He may never be the same yes, but we will all survive this.” He pulls away a little, “After all we have survived worse, you and I.”   
  
Arthur kisses him then, with passion but without lust, feels the way Francis’s lips move and part against his. When they pull apart Francis is smiling ever so slightly. 

“Let me cook us dinner.” He says softly, and Arthur nods reluctantly letting go of him. Francis starts pulling open drawers, while Arthur moves into the living room again. After a moment he starts tiding up the papers strewn around the room.   
  
“You seem to always be cooking for me.” Arthur points out and hears Francis laugh from the kitchen.   
  
“But of course. When I’m not there all you eat is Indian take-away and your own cooking. It’s a wonder you haven’t poisoned yourself and your entire population yet.” Francis sticks his head around the doorway and smiles at Arthur,   
  
“This isn’t going to take long.”   
  
“Yes, I’ve heard that a lot over the years.” Arthur mutters to himself.   
  
“What was that?” Francis calls from the kitchen “I didn’t quite catch it, mes sourcils prefers.”   
  
“Nothing luv.” Arthur smiles to himself and sits on the couch taking a sip of Francis’ abandoned wine. Francis is right, it isn’t long before he comes back into the living room clearing off what remains on the coffee table with a few tentacles, before placing a tray down.   
  
Francis settles himself on the couch next to Arthur and makes to pull him closer, causing Arthur to shake his head. “No it’s bad enough we’re eating in here not at the table.”   
  
“But you eat in your own living room in front of the television all the time.”   
  
“Yes well,” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, “it’s different here.”   
  
“Nonsense.” Francis finally gets his arms around the smaller nation and manages to drag him closer; he pets Arthur’s shoulders and back with his hands and tentacles curling around Arthur’s waist. Slowly Arthur relaxes enough for Francis to pull him closer, until he is leaning against Francis side. “I made us omelets.” Francis says into Arthur’s hair as he continues to gently rub Arthur’s back.   
  
“There only seems to be one plate.” Arthur notes and Francis hums a little in affirmation. Arthur arches his eyebrows and reaches for the plate, balancing it on his lap. Francis shifts on the couch until he can gently tug Arthur to him so that Arthur would have been sitting in Francis’ lap if he’d still had one. Francis takes the plate away from Arthur easily with his tentacles, holding securely at just the right level for the other nation.   
  
“Go ahead.” Arthur eyes him but takes a tentative bite with the fork. The omelet has asparagus and tastes good, really good, but Arthur had already known it would. Francis takes the fork and scoops some up himself.  
  
“If you try and feed that to me I’ll bloody well will stick that fork up your arse.”   
  
Francis puts the contents of the fork in his own mouth, arching both eyebrows at Arthur, before he swallows. “Empty threats Arthur since I doubt you could fine my arse.”   
  
They eye each other as Arthur snatches the fork away and goes after the omelet and Francis grins and tries to contain a chuckle. “I forgot how much it made you nervous. The idea of me feeding you food.” His grin only widens when Arthur glares at him. Francis takes the fork away from him and this time when it contains a bit of omelet he aims it at Arthur. “Open up.”   
  
“Damn it, no.” Arthur clamps his mouth firmly shut.  
  
“Don’t be such a baby.” Francis sounds both amused and exasperated. “It can be very romantic. Besides it’s not like you’ve never been fed before.”   
  
“Being fed by someone else is for children and the infirm-ummph!” He’s cut off when Francis unceremoniously shoves the fork into Arthur’s mouth.   
  
“There now, that wasn’t so hard.” Francis points out rather smugly while Arthur turns beet red with rage.   
  
“Fuck you-”  
  
Arthur is cut off again this time when Francis kisses him. Francis throws himself into the kiss open mouthed and possessive and Arthur can’t resist following suit. Somewhere along the way their kisses become slower, more soothing then sensual. When they pull apart both are flushed and breathing hard. Francis pulls Arthur close, holds him with his tentacles and tucks the other nations head under his chin. They stay like that, quietly, for a few minutes until Francis reaches again for the food. They eat the rest in silence.

Francis seems content to sit and hold Arthur and be held in return. Arthur though shifts a little fretfully after a little while, and he looks up at Francis who seems lost in thought. Arthur arches up a little and kisses Francis slowly. He deepens the kiss as Francis’ lips part under his. Arthur closes his eyes and throws himself into the kiss mapping Francis’ mouth with lips, teeth and tongue and Francis’ arms tighten a little around his shoulders. Arthur wraps his arms around Francis’ neck and breaks the kiss only to gasp in air before kissing him again. Francis’ hands pull up the back of Arthur’s shirt and slips underneath to stroke along his back while his tentacles loosely curl around Arthur’s legs. Arthur breaks the kiss and removes Francis’ glasses, setting them on the table before trailing kisses down Francis’ neck and the very light outline of scars the circle the base. He kisses and nips at the scars causing Francis to groan. Francis’ hands slide down Arthur’s body to cup his arse and squeezes causing Arthur to whimper a little. Francis pinches his bottom sharply and Arthur makes a strangles noise into Francis’ shoulder. Francis smiles and then gently moves Arthur so he can slide out from under him and Arthur blinks in confusion. Francis’ tentacles touched the floor lowering him down and Francis’ fingers undo Arthur’s belt and trousers and Arthur sucks in a shaky breath.   
  
“Francis-” He breaks off with a hiss when Francis’ fingers close around his cock and gently eases him out into the open. Francis licks the tip fisting the shaft and Arthur balls his hands into fists on the couch and pants through his nose. The feeling of Francis’ beard against his sensitive skin causes his whole body to shake as Francis continues to trace the head of Arthur’s cock with his tongue. Arthur concentrates on not thrusting, and not reaching out for Francis. It’s been a long time since Francis did this for him. “I thought-” Arthur grits out between pants, “that you didn’t like doing this anymore.”  _Not since the second world war_ , but he doesn’t say that.   
  
Francis pulls back and chuckles, fingers teasing at Arthur’s shaft and Arthur fight not to let his eyes roll back in his head. “I don’t, but I am making an exception this time.” Francis grins at him before sucking the entire head into his mouth sucking hard. Arthur swears under his breath as Francis’ fingers creep back into his boxers to play with his balls. Arthur groans and Francis hums deep in his throat and tentacles slowly creep up Arthur’s legs, holding him loosely. Francis takes more of Arthur’s cock into his mouth, relaxing his throat to allow it to push deeper and his tentacles wrap around Arthur’s thighs pull them wider open. Arthur’s back arches as he comes, he gasps for several second not really focused on anything and Francis grimaces a little and wipes his mouth before tucking Arthur back into his boxers.   
  
“You didn’t have to-” Francis kisses him and Arthur drapes his arms around the other nation’s neck feeling all boneless and compliant. Francis tentacles wrap around him drawing him close, Francis nuzzles at his neck and behind his ear.   
  
“You should take a shower before bed.” Francis murmurs and Arthur wiggles a little in his arms.   
  
“What about you?”   
  
Francis kisses his neck. “Don’t worry about it.”   
  
“But-” Arthur rubs his hands across Francis’ chest, feels fine clothe against his hands, it must have silk in it he thinks. He fingers stroke across a nipple and Francis takes a quick breath. “I want to worry about it.” He fists the front of Francis’ expensive shirt and uses it to close the last centimeter or so between them. Francis breaks the kiss to give Arthur a long look. 

“Alright then, shall we go to bed?” Francis gets off the couch and then holds out his hand to Arthur who lets himself be pulled up and kissed. Arthur tugs the other nation in the direction of the bedroom and Francis follows managing to get a hand down the back of Arthur’s still undone trousers groping his arse. Arthur gasps and Francis press him against the wall of the hallway squeezing the other nation’s backside with both hands. Arthur can’t bite back a whimpers when Francis tentacles wrap around his legs forcing them apart a little further. Francis eyes narrow at the sound.  
  
“You like that. What happened to it being too much?”  
  
“I got over it.” Arthur hauls him closer by the front of his shirt again and kisses him ignoring the little voice in the back of his head which tells him they might want to be easing into this a bit more.   
  
They kiss again and Arthur tugs him into the bedroom, and pulls him over to the bed. Arthur allows himself to fall backwards, arms wrapped around Francis’ neck, tugging him down too.   
  
“Arthur.”  
  
“Hmm?” Arthur kisses Francis’ neck, tries to push one hand underneath his shirt.   
  
“Let me up, I need to brush my teeth” Francis starts to pull away and Arthur lets out a disgruntled noise.  
  
“Oh for God’s sake, Francis.”  
  
“Please mon amour.”   
  
“Fine.”   
  
Arthur lets him up and Francis gives him a little smile and head for the bathroom shutting the door behind him. Arthur lays still look at the ceiling and getting his breathing under control again before standing up and undressing. He folds his clothes and puts them on the chair in the corner. Francis still hasn’t come out of the bathroom yet and Arthur lies back done on the bed. Francis is nervous he thinks, nervous about having sex with Arthur. Which is strange because Arthur can count on one hand the number of times Francis has been nervous about sex with him. Arthur lets his hand trail down his body and wrap around his half hard cock. He idly strokes himself thinking about all the things they could do when Francis comes out of the bathroom, all the things he wants to do to Francis’ body to make him feel good. 

The bathroom door opens and Arthur watches Francis glide across the room. Francis stops by the edge of the bed and watches Arthur touch himself for a moment and Arthur fights against the urge to spread his legs wider. Francis pulls his shirt off and lets it drop to the floor. He pushes himself up onto the bed with ease and Arthur immediately sits up and grabs the other nation by the shoulders and kisses him. He means it to be hard and demanding but Francis gentles it, fingers playing with Arthur’s hair, lips soft. They pull back and Arthur lets his hands slide down Francis’ chest through blond hair that’s made him go a little crazy when it rubs against his skin for the last couple hundred years. Two of Francis’ tentacles rise and Arthur doesn’t even pause before stroking them too. They are soft and hot in his hand, with little delicate suckers on the inside that catch and pull a little at his skin. He wonders quite suddenly what it would be like to lick them and he becomes harder between his thighs at the thought. He’s leaning forward before he can even think it through, licking his lips with the tip of his tongue.   
  
“What-”   
  
They are soft and delicate against his tongue as he licks the underside of one tentacle, traces each tiny sucker with the very tip. It tastes like Francis’ skin has always tasted, warm, clean, a little salty with a hint of something that always reminds Arthur of dried flowers.   
  
“Oh God . . . Arthur!” Francis’ hands are fisted in the bedspread, and he’s panting open mouthed watching Arthur with a look to awe.   
  
“Feels good hmm?” Arthur asks smiling a little runs the flat of his tongue up the inside of the tentacle to the tip and watches Francis shudder, “does it feel like when Feliciano touched you?”  
  
“No.” Francis shakes his head blond hair falling across his face, “it feels nothing like that did.”   
  
Other tentacles wrap around Arthur’s legs up to his thighs and one wraps around his waist, just holding and gripping. Arthur experimentally sucks on the tip and Francis sighs and moves a little restlessly. “The undersides are more sensitive.”   
  
Arthur nods a little goes back to licking at the little suckers. Francis cries out and writhes and the tentacles push and pull at Arthur’s legs spreading them wider. Arthur lies back on the bed holding one tentacle with both hands as he licks and teases at the underside, legs spread obscenely wide. Soft tentacles creep up his legs and then Arthur gasps and jerks away from the tentacle in his hand as little suckers move across the fragile skin of his balls and cock.   
  
“Dear God!” It feels like he shouts it but his voice only come out as a whisper.  
  
“You like that?” Francis asks and Arthur can only thrash against the bed as a tentacle curls around his shaft. Another curls around his balls putting a little roughly at tender skin until Arthur cries out.   
  
“Luv-” Arthur fists the covers so hard his knuckles are probably white, his whole body wracked with sensation so strong and foreign it’s almost painful. “Can’t-” he’s having a hard time breathing and his cock dribbles onto his own stomach. He’s going to come again, and Francis hasn’t even come once.  
  
Arthur struggles to get himself together, bites his lip hard. “Stop, Francis please.”   
  
Francis’ tentacles instantly retreat. Arthur looks up slightly hazily to see Francis watching him with concern. He’s also biting his lip and Arthur realizes distantly that his legs and stomach are sticky. He runs one hand across his inner thigh and brings it up to look at it, and the liquid is clear and sticky and when he licks it tentatively it tastes salty. 

“You don’t-” Francis breaks off with a little frustrated noise but Arthur can’t tell who it’s aimed at. “I’m sorry I should have warned you.”  
  
“What are you on about?” Arthur sit up and manages to move closer despite the fact that he’s still dizzyingly aroused. He reaches out for Francis until there upper bodies are pressed together, reassuring in its familiarity. Then his hands skim back down to the tentacles below Francis’ waist, they are wet and sticky. It should not turn him on the way it does Arthur thinks, fingers tracing up and down the soft underside of one tentacle, his whole body practically pulsing with need.  
  
“I didn’t want you to stop because of that.” He kisses Francis on the chin and the cheeks and finally the lips. Biting down on the other nation’s lower lip until Francis makes a small noise and fists Arthur’s hair almost painfully, holding him close instead of trying to pull him away. “I stopped you because if you kept touching me like that I would have come.” He pulls back a little bringing two fingers up to his mouth and very deliberately licks them clean. Francis eyes dilate even as his lips quirk up in a smile. “And this was supposed to be about making you feel good.” Arthur skims one hand down Francis’ back to the slight rise of what should have been the beginning of his pert arse but now was the beginning of his back tentacles. Arthur pinches the skin there sharply hoping it’s just as sensitive as before and by the way Francis gasps and pushes their bodies together Arthur guesses it still is. They kiss and Arthur pulls Francis down to lay on top of him tentacles tangling around his legs again. Francis’ fingers stroke his face and Arthur pinches and plays with the tender skin of Francis’ lower back.   
  
“How do you want me to get you off?” Arthur asks finally hoping Francis has some idea of what his newly rearranged body likes. Francis hands’ smooth over Arthur’s chest to play with the other nation’s nipples and Arthur swats at his hands “stop that, and focus.”   
  
Francis laughs and nuzzles his neck. “Just touching you feels so good.” Francis voice is soft like he’s confessing a secret and Arthur is once again jarred by this tentativeness about Francis where there usually is none. Francis’s tentacles twist up Arthur’s legs and wrap around his waist and crawl across his chest, making his damp and sticky, and oh so very turned on. Arthur groans as tentacles lightly brush over his cock and balls again, caress his arse. When one tentacle lightly strokes between rounded buttocks, silky suckers pulling at the sensitive skin of his entrance he goes a little crazy.   
  
“Oh God, fuck me!”   
  
Francis looks almost shocked and Arthur glares and pants and just dares him to say anything about how wanton Arthur is acting. It’s not like Arthur hasn’t crawled and cried and begged Francis to fuck him before after all. Francis doesn’t comment only kisses him instead. “Do you really want to?”   
  
“Do you want to? Would it feel good to you?” Arthur tangles is fingers in Francis hair bites his bottom lip and concentrates on forming completely sentences and not coming all over himself again.   
  
“Everything feels good.” Francis tells him softly, “I got a taste when you called from Alfred’s house but I had no idea . . .” he takes a long shuddering breath presses his face against Arthur’s neck. “They are so sensitive right now Arthur, all of them, and everything just feels so . . . so much more.” He takes another breath and Arthur’s fingers tighten, pulling a little at blond curls, causing Francis breathing to stutter again.   
  
“Then it would feel good to fuck me.” His voice as gone raw with want and Francis makes a small noise of need. They stare at each other for a long moment, both panting openly and then they are moving. 

Arthur sits up and rolls onto his hands and knees propping his chin on his hands and Francis drags the bedside table drawer open, with his hand, Arthur notes. He rifles through it and Arthur strokes himself agonizingly slow, watching him through half-lidded eyes. Francis sits back with a bottle of the vanilla lube he prefers. There’s a pop of the lid opening and Arthur wrinkles his nose and sighs. It smells too sweet for him but Francis likes it and it doesn’t taste bad. He’s going to smell like he’s fucked by a éclair though. Arthur smiles a little into the bed remember how Francis had laughs until he couldn’t stand up when Arthur had first told him that. It had completely ruined the mood. Not to mention spawned all sort of horrible innuendo that had Arthur red faced with rage and sleeping on the couch on his own volition for a week.   
  
“You could just use one of those.” Arthur waves at one of Francis’ tentacles, and wonder whether it would be impolite to mention the fact that they were self-lubricating. Francis seemed a little bashful about it.   
  
“It’s too big.” Francis says and Arthur snorts and then brakes off into a moan as one of the said tentacles strokes between his arse cheeks, pulling at soft skin and curling down around his balls. Arthur’s mouth falls open and his eyes slide closed. The tip of the tentacle very gently nuzzles at his entrance and Arthur whimpers and spreads his legs wider and Francis croons to him and pets his hair. The very tip pushes in and Arthur rocks back onto it, and then two of Francis’ fingers are pushing in alongside the tip of the tentacle, stretching and teasing him and Arthur swears and Francis groans.   
  
“I want to know what you feel like inside of me.” Arthur says face pressed against his own arms, “What it will feel like when you come.”   
  
Francis turns his face gently by the chin and kisses him now, his tentacles curl around Arthur’s waist and thighs spreading him open even more. His fingers gently draw out and the tentacles already in Arthur’s warm body pushes deeper. Arthur fists clench and his head lolls a little with the intense pleasure of it. The tentacle is soft and slick as it sinks into him, deeper than any cock and Arthur groans and feel the pressure in his gut. Francis whispers to him in French and kisses the back of his neck, arms going around Arthur’s chest and holding him tight. 

“Francis-” Arthur mumbles into the bed hands, grips the bedspread tighter, “more . . . please . . .God I-” He breathes harshly and feels his cock drip and Francis’ tentacles leave wet trails across his hips and thighs. He swallows dryly. “I want another one inside.”   
  
Francis still above him and rubbing across Arthur’s chest and for a very long minute Arthur thinks Francis is going to say no. Then the very tip of another tentacles nudges at Arthur’s hole and Arthur’s whole body shakes with need. Francis goes slow, so very slow that it makes Arthur buck and groan. The tentacle around his hips becomes tight, holding him still and he hears Francis pant as he carefully works the second tentacle in to Arthur’s body. When Francis finally stills every breath Arthur takes comes out as a little whimper, and he feels so full, so stretched and the tentacles inside him have settled deeper than he’s ever been penetrated before.   
  
There are tentacles wrapped around his legs, waist, chest, and arms, one tangled in his hair. Francis arms around his chest with Francis own chest pressed against Arthur’s back. Francis is making noises like he can’t quite breathe but his hands aren’t shaking and his tentacles hold Arthur still. Then one of Francis’ hands move up and two fingers press into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur moans and cries out. Francis takes a long steadying breath and then the two tentacles so deep inside of Arthur’s body slowly twist together. Arthur screams and comes, who body shaking and clenching and Francis cries out wordlessly and Arthur feel hot fluid against his thighs and chest and deep inside, and for one horrible-wonderful, time-stopping moment he thinks he’s going to come again.   
  
Instead he just passes out. 


	13. Chapter 13

“Alfred don’t you dare even think about touching that fudge, it’s for Christmas!” Arthur sits bolt upright in bed, scowling fiercely. While Francis, who had been hovering worriedly over him, stares at him in shock for a full minute and then bursts out laughing.   
  
“Oh God, mon amour,” Francis, although still laughing hysterically, manages to be gentle when he grabs Arthur and drags him into the other nation’s lap. “First you scare me half to death. And then when you wake up I find that, despite having fucked you very literally into unconsciousness, you are happily dreaming of another man. ”  
  
“Nation.” Arthur corrects him automatically, “and it was far from happy.” He glowers at the, thankfully only imagined, presence of his ex-colony. Then he gasps as pain assaults him in a most unfriendly fashion. Francis finally stops laughing and gently lays Arthur back down and turns him until Arthur is lying on his stomach and Francis gets up and comes back with a glass of water and some pills. Arthur takes the pills while Francis inspects his backside. Francis moves with the kind of cool clinicalness that reminds Arthur of the aftercare the other nation usually subjects him to once Francis finishes practically flaying him alive with a cat o’ nine tails. Arthur shivers and reminds himself sternly that now would not be a good time to get aroused again. He sips the water as Francis rummages through the bedside table and muses that for a nation with such a warm disposition both in and outside of the bedroom Francis’ bedside manner could stand a little improvement. Francis goes about doing things with creams and warm clothes and Arthur closes his eyes again and dozes. He’s vaguely aware of Francis finally lying down next to him and wrapping him in both arms and tentacles. Arthur sighs and cuddles closer before sinking deeper into sleep.   
  
Arthur wakes up with only a very pale light creeping through the blinds. Francis is asleep beside him, dark gold lashes standing out against pale cheeks. Arthur sighs and stretches a little feeling stiff but not in pain. He sighs and reaches out to brush just the very tips of his fingers across one of Francis’ bare shoulders. Francis is so beautiful it makes Arthur smile and ache. Francis has always been beautiful though both incredibly feminine and undeniably masculine in a way that always both confuses and attracts Arthur. He knows he should let the other nation sleep but he can’t help leaning forward and gently kissing him on the forehead Francis’ eyes flutter open and gives Arthur a sleepy, questioning look.  
  
“Is something wrong?”

Arthur shakes his head a little and then kisses Francis again, on his forehead, cheeks, chin and finally lips. He doesn’t mind that Francis tastes like sleep, Francis has tastes like much worse things and Arthur has still kissed him. He depends the kiss as Francis’ tentacles move up around him, his own hand gently petting down the front of Francis chest only to rake back up with his nails. Francis gasps a little into the kisses, and Arthur firmly squeezes Francis’ nipples, and bites teasingly at his lower lip. When he finally pulls away, Francis eyes are half-lidded with both sleep and lust, Francis’ licks across reddened lips but doesn’t say anything.

Arthur moves lower on the bed to take one of Francis’ nipples into his mouth and gently sucks before harshly biting at it. Arthur’s hands slide under Francis’ weight to stroke across where the slight swell of Francis’ lower back becomes tentacles. Francis’ own hands drop to play with Arthur’s hair as the other nation kisses his way across Francis’ chest to his other nipple. Arthur treats the other tiny nub the same before licking and nuzzling the pale blond hair that runs down the center of Francis’ chest and Arthur can’t help the small noises he makes. He lays his cheek against Francis’ chest for a minute just listening to the other nation’s heartbeat while he reaches down to grasp one of Francis’ tentacles. He teases at the sensitive underside, gently pressing against and tracing little suckers with the tips of his fingers. Francis makes a soft noise deep in his chest as Arthur’s fingers explore the long appendage find the tip is far more sensitive than the base, which makes him smile. He regretfully slides off of Francis’ body, rolling to lie on his back next to the other nation and Francis pushes himself up to lean over Arthur. Arthur knows Francis like’s watching him, being able to see his face and eyes when they have sex. So Arthur holds eye contact with the other nation as he takes the tentacle he’s been playing with and brings to his mouth. He licks, as he did last night, tracing the delicate, little, pebble-like suckers, before pushing his tongue between them to tease at the soft, pale skin.   
  
That draws a small almost shocked noise from Francis. Arthur looks up to see Francis’ eyes have gone wide and a pretty flush has started to creep down his throat and chest. Arthur groans himself and redoubles his efforts, kisses and licking at the little suckers before digging his tongue between them to lick at the sensitive skin there. He closes his eyes and takes several inches of tentacles into his mouth as if it were a cock, alternating between sucking and licking between suckers. His hands work along as much of the rest of it as he can. Stroking with his fingertips, trying to brush against that very sensitive pale blue skin as much as possible. Francis gasps and groans, fingers twisting none too gently in Arthur’s hair. The tentacles resting against his thighs and the one in his mouth are moist with their lubrication and it makes it easier for his hands to glide across smooth flash.   
  
Arthur feels slightly light headed, he is aroused because Francis is aroused, but it is a slower arousal not like the frantic need or pleasure of the night before. Francis’ tentacles touch and pet at his body but that doesn’t in and of itself arouse him either, any more then Francis’ touch ever does. Right now Arthur concentrates on pleasuring Francis. Above him Francis shivers and tugs at Arthur’s hair, Arthur slowly lets the tentacle out of his mouth blowing cool air across the underside before going back to licking. Arthur digs his tongue between the smallest suckers right at the tip and Francis whole body tightens like a wire, and there is a sudden influx of the thick, liquid secretion. Francis goes limp on top of Arthur, Arthur lets go of the tentacle he’s been pleasuring and lets it lie across his own belly while he licks his fingers clean. It doesn’t taste like semen, just a little briny but mostly like Francis. Francis kisses the top of his head.   
  
“Thank you.” 

“Nonsense.” Arthur kisses him firmly on the lips “that was merely payback for last evening.”   
  
“I thought last night was payback for last evening.” Francis gives him a lazy smile, “although I’m not complaining. In fact by all means continue to pay me back.” He raises himself up so he can lean over Arthur again and kisses along the curve of his neck. “I could think of some more debts you owe me if you want.”   
  
“Get off.” Arthur tries to push Francis away with absolutely no strength behind it what so ever. “It’s almost time to get up and I need to call Cameron and God only knows how many text messages I already have from Alfred.”  
  
Francis laughs and traps both of Arthur’s hands above the other nation’s head while he licks up Arthur’s neck to bite his ear hard, and Arthur’s whole body shudders. Francis uses two tentacles to hold Arthur’s hands in place while his own hands slide down Arthur’s body to fondle him between his thighs. Arthur’s stomach and inner-thighs are still sticky with Francis’ fluids and Francis’ hands are slick as well. Arthur makes little breathy noises as Francis’ hands moves over his cock. It doesn't take long for him to come, shaking and crying, clutching at the tentacles that still encircle his wrists for dear life.   
  
They catch their breaths for a minute tangled together before Arthur untangles himself and heads for the shower. Francis is right behind him and it’s a little bit more of a squeeze then usual with Francis’ tentacles but they manage.   
  
Quite a lot of swearing and some shameless kissing and groping later and they are both dressed and in Francis’ kitchen. Francis makes crepes while Arthur texts several members of Parliament and drinks tea.   
  
“You should talk to your Prime Minister about getting some time off.” Francis sets a plate of peach and scream filled crepes with peach, ginger sauce in front of Arthur. “We can take a weekend, go to the country.”   
  
Arthur colors slightly as he picks up his fork. For them taking a weekend meant no computers or telephones. They’d cut off all communication, shut themselves up in Francis’ oldest, still existing, estate miles from the closest neighbors and indulge in their more . . .  _intense_  kinks. It was a luxury they only have time for about once every fifteen years or so. After doing some frantic math in his head Arthur realizes that yes they are just about due.   
  
“We’ll see.” He stuffs a forkful of crepe into his mouth and Francis kisses him on the cheek.


	14. Chapter 14

Making it back after a Christmas spent with Francis and Arthur always feels a little like Matthew has just made it through a natural disaster. Not to mention, America, Scotland, Wales, Australia, New Zealand, Monaco, and Seychelles, had been there. Which meant it had been one of the larger Christmas reunions. Which in turn meant world war had only just been averted. At least, Matthew thinks, staring vaguely at the floor in his own front hall, he’d spent the Holiday season right: praying frantically to Mary and the baby Jesus for world peace. It always feels like a little more of a necessary goal after spending time with the “family.”   
  
“Man, I think Francis and Dad have gotten even weirder, if that’s even possible.”   
  
Matthew moves to stand in the doorway of his living room and looks through his fingers at Alfred, who’s lying sprawled on the couch.   
  
“I mean, besides the whole tentacle thing.” Alfred yawns, “not to mention the relationship thing. Am I the only one who thinks it’s a little creepy the way they haven’t broken up yet? I mean except for the one time a few months back. But that was, like, for only a couple weeks so it doesn’t count.”   
  
“I think it’s kind of nice.” Matthew heads for the kitchen and starts taking things out of the freezer and fridge. He needs poutine and he needs it now. “I like it better when they get along than when they’re constantly fighting and making UN meetings unbearable for everyone.”   
  
“Yeah, I guess.” Alfred leans against the kitchen doorway “Dude you’re not going to ruin perfectly good French fries by putting gravy on them, are you?”   
  
Matthew whips around and gives him a death glare he usually only reserves for when they fight about gay marriage or hockey.   
  
Alfred holds up both hands as if to ward him off, “Whatever, chill out. Just don’t put any on mine, ok?”   
  
“Who says I was making you any?” Matthew grumbles but he does put enough fries for two on the pan before putting it in the oven, and starts heating up a jar of gravy.   
  
“Hey, but it’s kind of sad really.” Alfred flops down at the kitchen table and picks at the top.   
  
“What is?” Matthew wonders absently, also wondering why Alfred can’t be useful and find the bottle of ketchup that’s somewhere in Matthew’s refrigerator if he’s going to insist on eating the stuff on his fries.   
  
“Well it’s not like they’re going to be together much longer.” Alfred crosses his arms over his chest and starts jiggling his leg up and down. 

Matthew usually has endless patience when it comes to his brother, or most anything really. He’s just been through a very, very stressful couple of days though, and Alfred’s constant twitching is making Matthew want to slap the other nation.   
  
“After all, it’s not like Francis can go for very long without sex. And although I am willing to bet Arthur can go for a pretty long time without it, it’s not like he can do it forever either.”   
  
Matthew winces a little and remembers the way the two older nations had looked at each other over this past visit. Recalling too the way they had sat so close to each other on Arthur’s couch watching as America and Scotland almost came to blows over their different philosophies on workers’ rights.   
  
“I don’t think that’s a problem.”   
  
“What?” Alfred stares at him like he’s grown a second head as Matthew takes the fries out of the oven and goes in search of ketchup and cheese curds.   
  
“Like I said, I’m pretty sure they’re having sex.” Matthew piles two of his biggest plates with fries and ladles gravy over his own.   
  
“But Francis has tentacles.” Alfred’s voice has gone about three octaves deeper and very serious, like it does whenever he snaps out of his happy-go-lucky idiot persona.   
  
Matthew shrugs and sets the plate of plain fries and the bottle of ketchup in front of him.   
  
“And obviously that’s not a problem for them.” The idea is very, very far out of his comfort zone, but then the idea of Arthur and Francis having sex at all is outside of his comfort zone. He’s not going to judge what other nations do in bed, though. Meanwhile, Alfred stares at him like he’s afraid Matthew’s gone soft in the head.   
  
“It’s very popular in Japan,” Matthew offers as Alfred continues to stare at him, “and it’s not like they’re not both consenting adults”  
  
A look of horror slowly creeps over Alfred’s face and Matthew starts shoveling fries into his mouth so he doesn’t slap his brother for real this time. It’s not like Alfred doesn’t know what sexual kinks are or like he doesn’t have a boatload of his own. It’s just that Alfred always feels the need to not only hide his own sex life like a shameful dirty secret, but also to expect everyone else to do the same. Alfred needs to get laid on a regular basis, Matthew thinks, by someone good, kind, loving, and a little more open minded than his brother. Looking down at his plate he discovers he’s run out of poutine and steals some non-tomato coated fries off of Alfred’s plate to soak up the last bits of cheese and gravy with. It’s not enough though; his insides are still roiling with a mixture of irritation, jetlag, and stress, and he gets up to make himself some more cheese-covered comfort food.   


“I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to look Dad in the eye again.” Alfred sounds slightly nauseous.   
  
“You got over finding out he had sex in the first place; you can get over this,” his brother points out, without too much sympathy. After all Alfred had found out about Arthur’s sex life when he’d innocently inquired about the noises coming from Arthur’s room. Matthew had found out that Francis had sex when he’d actually walked in on it happening, in the parlor of all places, with Russia. Francis had then sat him down and given him a very long and detailed sex talk, which had included masturbation, sex with women, sex with men, and examples of common sexual positions and kinks. It had been one of the worst experiences of his life. Francis had been very calm, very straightforward, and very scientific, and Matthew had wanted to die. Ivan had looked down right sorry for him.   
  
They are happy together, he thinks soothingly to himself, they are happy and that’s what counts.   
  
“But, but, but. His tentacles have little sucker-section cup-things on them!” Alfred sounds almost hysterical. “Like dude, and then they would have to-”  
  
Trying desperately to tune out his brother’s horrified rambling, Matthew wonders if he were to slam his head hard enough against the top of the counter whether it would remove  _that_  image from his mind.  


	15. Chapter 15

Arthur frowns down at his midriff and tries to button his trousers again. Just like last time they refuse to meet enough for him to force the button through the hole and he sighs and sits on the bed to pull them off. He’s not at all sure how he’s managed to gain this much weight without noticing. Serves him right, he supposes, for not paying more attention to those reports on national obesity statistics. It’s raining again, which Arthur finds fitting, but not because he feels like crying. No, he is a grown nation, and grown nations do not cry when they find they can no longer button their favorite pair of trousers. From the bathroom the sound of Francis singing drifts in, and Arthur rubs one hand across his face in frustration and goes in search of another, bigger pair of trousers. He’s still trouser-less when Francis exits the bathroom, hair wet and smelling of cinnamon and lavender.  
  
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Francis asks, eyeing Arthur’s bottom half as he glides across the floor to wrap his arms around the other nation and kiss him on the neck.   
  
Arthur huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, “my trousers won’t fit,” he admits not at all happily, at which point Francis experimentally gropes him to see if perhaps an erection could be the source of the trouble. Arthur grabs the other nation’s wrist and forces his hand above the waistline. “I’ve gained weight,” he clarifies.  
  
“I had noticed you were a little rounder about the middle.” Francis nuzzles his face into Arthur’s hair.

  
“And this is the point where I get to hear all about ‘an overweight nation not only being unattractive but also reflecting his people’s disregard for proper health and body image,’ am I right?” Arthur crosses his arms more tightly over his chest, quoting back one of Francis’ earlier statement to a less than pleased Alfred.   
  
“No, you are my exception I think.” Teeth bite down gently on Arthur’s ear and he controls the shiver that runs up his spine and pulls away with a disbelieving snort.

  
A second later he’s snapped back around when Francis grabs him by the wrist and pulls them flush against each other. His tentacles twine around Arthur’s body, holding him in place.   
  
“Let me be very clear.” Francis says, voice completely serious now, and so close that their noses touch, “despite what I may have said in the past, there is nothing about you that I find repulsive or unattractive. And that includes this.” One of Francis’ hands slides down Arthur’s body to lightly land on his slight paunch. For a moment they both just breathe and then Arthur’s expression softens a little and Francis’ hand drifts down to one of his hips. “Are you still sore?” The hand on Arthur’s hips drifts around to gently cup his bottom, Arthur shakes his head, and Francis smiles. “Good.” 

When Francis’ cellphone goes off roughly fifteen minutes later Arthur is completely naked and handcuffed to the bed.   
  
“Francis, that’s your phone.”   
  
Francis makes a small noise of irritation and looks up from where he’s been kissing the inside of Arthur’s ankle. “Ignore it.”  
  
“It’s probably your Prime Minister.”  
  
“He can wait.”  
  
Arthur twists his head so he can see the bedside table better. “Actually it’s your Secretary of Defense.”   
  
Swearing softly in French, Francis grabs the phone of the bedside table with one tentacle, while still balancing Arthur’s leg on his shoulder. The conversation that follows is short and curt, and Arthur doesn’t both translating it. With an irritated sigh Francis snaps the phone closed and practically flings it onto the small discarded pile of clothing on the floor by the bed.   
  
“They are still worried about my condition.” With another sigh Francis goes back to stroking delicate fingers up and down the inside of Arthur’s leg.   
  
“Well, they haven’t shown any signs of disappearing or dropping off.” Not that he’d be happy if they did, now that he’s gone through the trouble of getting used to them and all. “And as far as you’ve told me no one’s been able to figure out why you have them in the first place.”   
  
“Yes.” Francis licks along the bridge of Arthur’s foot before pushing the other nation’s legs wider apart and sliding down so he can trace circles on the soft skin of Arthur’s inner thigh. “It is still just as much of a mystery as it was when they first appeared.”  
  
Francis bites down on the soft skin that his fingers had just traced, holds on until the skin bruises dark under his mouth and Arthur’s whole body arches and writhes.   
  
“Perhaps it is a sign of a coming apocalypse.” Long slim fingers skim over the dark bite mark and Arthur makes a high keening sound. “Maybe we will shortly be sharing a bunker again.”   
  
“Because that’s what I love to do.” Arthur pants, pulling against the handcuffs so they creak and groan, “you always complain about the food and hog all of the ammunition.”   
Francis doesn’t reply to that, only grins and reaches across the bed for the nipple clamps. Arthur starts mentally composing the email he’s going to have to send explaining why he’s missed his first few scheduled meetings. 

When Arthur comes out of the bedroom two hours later, now fully dressed and toweling his hair dry, he finds Francis is curled up on his couch reading over reports. Francis looks up at Arthur and Arthur pulls the towel away from his face with a sigh and watches Francis’ mouth quirk up into a smile.   
  
“Beautiful,” Francis says very softly.   
  
Outside it’s stopped raining, and early morning sun slants through the window, turning Francis’ hair to white gold where it escapes its loose braid to fall across his forehead. Arthur takes in the tentacles curled around Francis’ waist, reading glasses sliding down his nose, half-empty cup of coffee held loosely between long fingers.  
  
“Yes,” Arthur agrees and comes to perch on the arm of the couch next to the other nation, “yes, you are.” 


End file.
